


Mired - Slick's Squad - Punch's story

by Reulte



Series: Slick's Squad [6]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 32,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reulte/pseuds/Reulte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sergeant Slick's treason on Christophsis, his squad is separated and sent to different commands.  Punch ends up on Mimban with the 224th.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

**Mired**

Punch looked down towards the planet’s surface from the side panels of the specialized transport LAAT.  Above the clouds the sun had shone brightly; then the LAAT had descended through a thick cover of clouds getting darker and denser as they moved lower.  Water condensed on the clear panes then became rivulets.  At a thousand meters the panes were covered with sheets of water.  Electric crackle in the sky billowed brightly around the modified LAAT which jerked and jumped, tossed by the inclement weather of Mimban.  Even at five hundred meters there appeared to be no surface to the planet.

Some of the rookies were nervous; it was too much like the worst of Kamino weather.  The electronic lightning storm was like one of the first outdoor drills they’d been taken on as cadets.  It was a drill on one of the created islands of Kamino and was usually the last drill as a singleton cadet and the beginnings of a functional squad.  

Punch closed his eyes, remembering.  There was always the excitement of being out of the Kamino training facility and knowing this drill was meant to solidify the cadets into squads.  There was always wind and rain and lightning; something so different from the flash-drills and training holovids.  There was a smell to storm; sharp and brittle and curling inside your senses.

And, there were always at least four fatalities by the end of the exercise; cadets killed by hypothermia or lightning or the slickness of every surface. You learned far more viscerally.  You learned - in a way that was keener, brighter, and far more memorable than flash-training - that weather couldn’t be trusted.  Only your brothers could be trusted.

Punch grunted deep in his chest.  That was lie.

Punch leaned his back against the LAAT reinforcements.  It was only weather, only some natural phenomena that had no intentions against any trooper.  If the transport crashed and they all died, at least there was no anger or hate in the weather.  No cruelty.  No treason.  Death would be strictly impersonal and for a bare moment, that was what Punch wanted.

His fingers reached to the pouch where he’d stashed the picture Sketch had drawn.  They’d been in the mess, arguing about the drawing, when the entire squad had been called back to the barracks.  Punch had crumpled the drawing in his fist, shoving it with the extra blaster cartridges on his belt.  Then Slick’s treason and capture.  Immediately afterwards, the squad had been separated and housed in different barracks.

They weren’t technically under arrest, but why should he be the first to make a move?   He’d wait for Sketch to come to him and apologize for drawing him in that grotesque, submissive sexual pose.  

Punch had his interview with the review board and was on a transport that night.  First to Kamino then to Captain Top and the 224th on Mimban.  He had lost most of his anger in the questioning of the review board but not enough to beg to see Sketch.  He hadn’t shown them the picture and they’d known he was hiding something though they realized it had nothing to do overtly with Slick’s treason.

Commander Cody had approach him during one of the breaks.  “We know what he did to Gus.  If he’s done anything like that to you, please let us know.”

Punch had bristled, all anger at the commander for the insinuation.  “The medics have cleared me.  I’m as pure as the day I was vatted.”   Though he didn’t feel clean anymore.  He felt mired, covered in something acidic eating away at him and leaving only a thick, filthy residue.

In his anger at Sketch, at Slick, at the world, Punch tore at the commander.  “You should have caught what he was doing.  You should have noticed.”

Commander Cody jerked back as if he’d been struck, his face pale.

Punch turned on his heel and strode back into the interview room, sitting military correct in the chair, wanting only to get the questions over and find Sketch.

Punch finished his interview and was ordered to gather his gear and report for immediate departure.  He took long moments to search for Sketch, not caring that it was in direct violation of his orders.

Sketch was gone.  Sergeant Wooley had told him that when he’d come searching for Punch and handed him his packed gearbag.  Punch could only stare at it as Wooley led him to the transport.

Gone?  Sketch?  Gone?

He didn’t even know where Sketch had been assigned.

“Welcome to your new home, rookies,” said the pilot with a chuckle that interrupted Punch’s reverie.  “You’ll all be Mimban mud-jumpers before long.”

Punch bristled at the words.  He was no rookie.  He hadn’t been shiny for a while; his dented armor and a blaster scar on his shoulder blade proved that.  He said nothing though; the pilot didn’t know that he was a reassignment transfer.  It wasn’t the usual way of things, it wasn’t normal.  The others in the LAAT, seeing his armor blaster-scorched and battle-scratched, seeing the way he stood and the way he moved to take the back bench, knew he wasn’t a shiny and, not knowing how to approach him, avoided him.

As if they knew he’d been part of the traitor’s squad. **  
**


	2. Mimban

Looking down from the LAAT, Punch saw the captain waiting on the landing pad.  Punch knew he was just there to greet the pilot.  Slick had always said that upper ranks and specialties received preferential treatment.  It was why he hadn’t liked his squad to associate with the regular ‘grunts’ in the mess.

Punch still didn’t understand why Sergeant Slick had thought them somehow better than their identically-cloned brothers.  Sometimes he and Sketch had discussed it but they’d never been able to pinpoint any particular reason.

 _Because he’s a traitor_ , whispered Punch’s mind.  

Punch wondered now if, perhaps they should have discussed it among the squad even if the rest of the squad hadn’t wanted to discuss anything with the two brothers.

Punch jerked.  No, that was what Slick had said and implied and manipulated them into thinking but now he couldn’t trust anything the sergeant had done.  

 _They don’t want to disturb two brothers,_ Slick had commented once then, later, when they had such different shifts. _You’ve made it clear you don’t want to be interrupted._  They had, but only because they had precious few minutes together and that because Slick kept them in opposite shifts.

What if Chopper had wanted to sit with him and Punch rather than isolate himself in the back at the lone table?  Frequently, he’d seen Chopper walk by their table and glance at them.  There had often been mild envy in his eyes but had there been hope also?  He’d been the only survivor of two squads back to back; what if he had just wanted company?  Was Chopper truly a bad trooper because of his scars, a bad trooper because Slick said only slow troopers had scars?  He hoped not and knew now Slick couldn’t be trusted.

What if Jester had the same questions they had?  Or better questions?  Back on Kamino his questions had often led them into discussions that were useful in training.  They had high scores as a squad because Jester often questioned what had happened in previous training and how it could apply to future training.  So often, they’d go into a scenario they had already discussed because of Jester’s questions yet Slick only had to glance in Jester’s direction to halt the flow of words.

What if Gus hadn’t really wanted to be the sergeant’s lover? Gus had never shown that kind of inclination before Christophsis.  Was it all manipulation?  When had it started?

Punch growled.  “Di-kut,” he accused himself under his breath.  “Effing, fekking, di-kut grunt.  I could have stopped it.”  He and Sketch could have stopped it; they could have invited Chopper to their table with them.  They could have listened to Jester’s questions.  Sketch or Jester could have talked to Gus, explaining their small font of sexual knowledge to him.

“Ah, fek,” Punch whispered to himself.  Gus had been coerced in some way by Slick.  That was the entire purpose of that bite mark on his shoulder - visible proof of Slick’s ownership.  “Gus, I’m sorry,” he said, as if Gus was standing in front of him rather than parsecs away.  “We should have protected you.  We should have protected each other.  We were a squad.  One of the best.”  

Again Punch looked out the transparent wall of the LAAT but saw only his failure in the reflection of surrounding figures in armor.

Slick had stripped away their foundations and it had begun with Zev’s death, with their introduction to their new squad sergeant and his harsh words of ‘getting the incompetent ones out of the way’.  Not one of them had made any disagreement with that statement.  That’s when it had started; when Slick told them that Zev was useless and they had believed him; when they had stood over Zev's body and tacitly agreed with Slick because no one had disagreed.  No one had said a word in Zev's defense.

There was a change in the LAAT’s engines as it went from forward momentum to landing preparation.  Punch stood and moved toward the door with a final glance around.  In deference to his experience, the others were letting him disembark first.

They were all shinies, all rookies but him.  They were his brothers and he’d do his best to protect them.

And not just from the tinnies this time.

\------------------------------

Captain Top faced the disembarking troopers and removed his helmet, revealing basic clone features to their view and the light drizzle.  There wasn’t a scar or tat anywhere on his face, or any hair either.

One of the rookies chuckled, changing it to a cough.   The captain only smiled.  “You’ll all be the same in a month or so,” he said clearly as he reached the end of the line of transfers.  He nodded at the one trooper in scarred armor.

He’d done well in leading the troopers away from the LAAT, gathering their gear, and keeping them in a loose formation as they gathered their gear.  As the most experienced trooper, he had taken command of the rookies until a more experienced officer - him - took over.  The rookies followed his lead; grabbing their gear, falling in order, then removing their helmets in the light drizzle and standing at the ready.

It fit with his record; excellent marks at Kamino then a lot of blank nothing followed by the single sentence ‘commendable actions in a K-classified situation’.

That K-classified was interesting; classified by Kamino - not the Jedi or the GAR but by Kamino.

“I’m Captain Top.  Welcome to the ranks of the 224th and the dismally wet and eternally muddy Mimban.  My seconds are Lieutenant Cover and Sergeant Heft who you will meet in the mess.  Mess is on the blue line,” he gestured towards an opening reaching below the LAAT pad.  “Barracks and common rooms on the yellow.  Red is towards the Command Center.  You’ll be introduced to your sergeants in the mess.”  He relaxed into a parade rest and most of the troopers in front of him followed his actions.  Not the experienced one, though and Top wondered about that.  He had a look of mixed anger and despair on his face and Top wondered if he’d lost his squad.  

“I know that some of you are not in squads, you’ll go to Table One.  All formed squads send one representative to Table Two.  You’ll have about three days to settle in, get your courtesy calls done with General Nyrm then me, and get briefed on the local situation.”  

The rookies moved towards the mess but the trooper with battle-marked armor paused then stood before the captain in attention.  The captain raised the portion of his forehead that would have had an eyebrow if they weren’t gone and saluted back.  “Yes, trooper?”

“I’m a transfer, sir.  From the 212th with specialty in electronics.”  He followed with his designation then his name - Punch.

Captain Top merely nodded with a speculative gaze.  “Is it ‘Punch’ because you fight?”  There weren’t too many one-on-one fights in his company. Mimban itself took care of that.

“No, sir.  Punch for punchline.”  For a moment he looked wistful with a sad smile.  “For stories and jokes.”  Then he shook his head.  “I assume you’ll put me into a specialty squad?”  

Captain Top gave a quick shake of his head.

“You assume incorrectly.  You’ll go to a line squad.”  

“Yes, sir.” Punch nodded, his face grimly set as if being in a line squad was punishment.

Captain Top noticed his expression and offered an explanation.  “Everyone - transfer or rookie - goes into a line squad.  We let Mimban take care of the electronics,” Top raised his face towards the sky then moved toward the opening speaking lightly with experience.  “Come on; it’s going to start raining.”

Punch held his hand out to the drizzle.  “What’s this then?”

“Moist air,” came the reply with a chuckle. 

Behind them, the LAAT lifted off into the sky.


	3. Making a Squad

Punch checked in at Table One where a group of rookies had lined up. They tried to defer to him again and made room for him at the head of their small line but he simply shook his head and stood at his place in line. No matter what Sergeant Slick had told them, he wasn't special. There was no difference between him and his brother troopers except experience. He wasn't going to fall into Slick's trap again.

He was assigned to Sergeant Tuur with two of the other troopers and he stepped to one side giving those troopers behind him room. Introducing himself to the other two by name, he asked a few general questions about their training to start a conversation. Both were fresh from Kamino, Thirty-one and Coil, and both seemed pleased that he would be in their squad. They were hesitantly asking him about battle and the best way to set up one's gear.

Punch knew they wouldn't be pleased if they'd known the circumstances of his transfer - tainted by treason.

"Why is he called 'night'?" The rookie behind him asked the trooper who was checking their chips and taking a copy for the command group, wanting to understand the sergeant's Mandalorian name.

The other trooper laughed as he gestured the rookie towards Punch and the other two clones. "You'll find out quick enough, shiny."

As they moved towards their barracks, Punch heard other names, some associated with ranks, and mentally filed them away. They'd get a briefing later on who was who in the company but he wanted to be ahead of the game. He ran their names in his mind: General Nyrm, Captain Top, Lieutenant Cover, Medics Tal and Bone, Scout Tap, and Sergeants Tuur, Heft, Blast and Flame.

By the tone of the captain's voice and his laughter at some joke where he sat in the mess, Cover and Heft were part of his original squad. A brother had that kind of trust only with his original squad.

Not even always with his original squad, Punch snorted, thinking of Jester, Gus and even the late addition of Chopper. Of Punch's original squad, he had only shared that kind of trust and camaraderie with Sketch. For a moment, Punch paused, watching Cover's grin as he put his arm around the captain's shoulders.

What if he had accepted Chopper with a friendly gesture like that? Showing that his scars didn't matter? What if he had laughed at one of Jester's antics or discussed philosophy with Gus? Would Slick have been able to use them then? Punch shook his head; no, Slick wouldn't have been able to do what he did to a squad of brothers. He'd been able to do so only because they weren't a squad but a group of strangers who had simply lived and trained together for years.

With a start, Punch realized that was his fault; his and Sketch's. They'd been partners out of the creche and had ignored attempts and overtures for friendship by the others. After all, they'd had each other: Punch and Sketch, Sketch and Punch. It meant the same thing.

For all that he didn't want to share Sketch's bunk, he'd been angry at Jester for offering what he denied Sketch. For all that it was a good idea, he and Sketch never partnered with any of the others in the squad unless ordered by their trainers.

Punch gazed at Captain Top, off-duty and laughing among the troopers of his Kamino squad then he glanced at the three rookies at his side who'd be in the same squad as him. Punch nodded with a smile. He'd work to make them a good squad, he'd use his experience to make them united. He'd make sure they couldn't be split and used against each other. As he and Sketch had been torn apart.

At least, he and Sketch both knew each other was alive. Perhaps, one day, they could be reunited.

\----------

"You have great potential," said the thin man in Jedi robes tapping the air in Punch's direction with a bony finger. "So much potential." Then he tilted his head as if listening to an invisible person in the office. "Oh, yes. I suspect so," he replied to an unasked question and chuckled.

General Nyrm was short for a human, barely coming to Punch's shoulder, and thin, almost spindly. He didn't appear to be still, even when he sat down, his hands moved in quick, staccato gestures and his toe tapped the ground in some quiet rhythm. He had a beard, white, and tightly braided to one side with a few beads. It was the only hair that Punch had seen on anyone from Mimban. All the troopers of the 224th that he had seen so far, from the captain down, had removed their hair.

General Nyrm noticed his observations and grinned as he tugged at his beard. "She doesn't like the taste of me."

"Who is she?" asked Punch.

"Mimban, of course," replied the general with his eyebrows raised in surprise, as if it was obvious. He shook his head sadly. "She isn't a happy planet. No planet with war is happy." His eyebrows drew down thoughtfully. "Except maybe Mustafar. Now, there's an angry planet for you, very unhappy." He sighed in regret as he leaned back in the chair, lifted his feet and crossed them under him. "It's a young planet, though. It just needs time to learn."

Punch decided General Nyrm was a lot further from reality than most Jedi.


	4. A New Guy

 

"Punch," called out Sergeant Tuur as he entered the barracks, "Captain wants you in the command center."

Punch, off-duty in fatigues, jumped up from the bunk. "Armor up or immediately?"

"I think he'd prefer immediately. There's a supply cruiser in orbit and they can't seem to hear us."

Punch was moving down the hall quickly towards the command center. He hadn't been there two days before understanding what Captain Top had said about letting Mimban take care of electronics. Mimban's humidity affected everything.

His bucket had shorted out twice his first day on Mimban and, with Sergeant Tuur's permission and oversight, he had made a few changes to increase reception and decrease the chances of humidity-induced malfunctions. He had also shown the rest of the squad those few changes. They weren't exactly 'authorized' modifications and he'd made sure the sergeant understood that before he looked at any helmets - even his own. Only later did he realize it was a legacy of Slick to make sure and double-sure. He'd felt nauseous and about to cry for sheer loneliness and had gone into the shower-room for solitude.

Tenaut, a medic and one of the experienced troopers of Tuur's squad, had followed him. "Are you ok," he asked softly after a few moments of no movement or sound of water from the stall.

Tiredly, Punch had raised his forehead from the cold white tile of the shower that matched his gauntlet, lowering the crumpled drawing he'd pulled out of his belt pouch and tucking it back into the ammo pack. Tenaut must think him crazy for being in the shower fully armored.

"I'll be ok in a moment, Tenaut."

"That's not the question I asked."

Punch sighed. "I know. I just…" He paused and swallowed, remembering it was treason to speak of what had happened with Sergeant Slick. He released a heavy breath. "I just miss my first squad."

Tenaut moved to sit on the towel bench, sliding aside Punch's helmet. "Tuur's squad is a good squad of vode, Punch, if you give them the chance. But they aren't my first squad either. I remember my Kamino brothers at the oddest times. I always say remembrance for them each night; I even talk to them." He gave a soft chuckle. "I tell them about my day and think about what they might have said." He was silent for a few moments and Punch knew he was remember them. Then Tenaut spoke again. "If you remember the best part of being with your Kamino vode, then it becomes bearable to go on every day without them." He stood and turned toward the door. "Sometimes you need to grieve alone but sometimes you need someone to listen. I'll be here when you need me then."

Punch's mind whirled. Slick had never said remembrance. All those who died, he said, had died because they were incompetent. What would he have done with Tenaut's offer? What would Slick's shadow, Gus, have said in response to those word? He felt even more nauseous. He wouldn't be like Slick or Gus. They would have scorned Tenaut for his weakness. He'd sworn he wouldn't be like Slick, tearing apart the squad.

Tenaut was almost at the shower door when Punch called his name.

"Tenaut, thank you." Punch said, saying words neither Slick nor Gus would ever say. "I offer the same to you. If you ever want to talk about your first squad, I'd like to know about them."

"Thanks, Punch." There was a wondering tone in Tenaut's voice that made Punch realize no one had ever asked to hear about his first vode.

It was, Punch decided, the first action of his to separate him from Sergeant Slick, the first action of his intention to protect his new squad as he'd never protected his Kamino squad.

The humidity of Mimban also affected his hair. The first night in the barracks, Punch had noticed itching where his hair grew and, deciding not to fight an entire planetary ecosystem, he had removed every bit of it from his body. He felt unaccustomedly cold and oddly naked without hair and his fingers would often reach up to touch the bare space of his chin or curiously run over his scalp. Sometimes, it felt like he was someone else. He entered the command center, willing his twitching fingers to stay away from his chin in front of the captain.

"Here's our new slicer," Captain Top said to someone obviously under the control panel. "Punch," Captain Top gestured him where another clone peered up from where he sat, working the underside of the console, his eyebrows twitching in surprised pleasure.

"Let me or Lieutenant Cover know when it's fixed, Art, Punch," said the captain as he moved out of the command center. "I'll be with the general."

"Slicer? Electronics speciality? That's great because I'm not." He laughed. "CT-2103, tank mechanic. Call me Art," the other clone gestured a greeting then reached into the toolbox. Punch could only stare at his dark eyebrows, unique among the clonetroopers of Mimban.

Punch leaned closer, and Art stopped moving, letting him inspect the eyebrows. After a moment, Punch nodded.

"That's amazing work. Did you ink every hair individually?"

Art grinned, puffing his chest with pride, and Punch realized that Slick hadn't let his squad know if he was proud of their accomplishments. But then, neither had he. He hadn't complimented Chopper on his accuracy or Jester on his observations.

Punch nodded again, letting Art see his admiration of the skill required.

"Each and every little hair. It's the one tattoo I won't put on anyone else." He turned back to the console. "We're receiving the incoming transmission, but there's no outfeed."

Punch sat next to Art. "It's probably just a short. We'll have it fixed in no time."

We, thought Punch, another word that hadn't seemed to be in Sergeant Slick's vocabulary.

" _We'll_ have it fixed in no time," he said again, wishing Slick and Gus could hear him.


	5. Sergeant's Second

 

It was quite in the barracks, the only outside noise the constant sound of the rain on the roof.  It was, Punch decided, becoming a soothing noise.  

The sergeant was running over some information on the datapad and murmuring to himself about duties and supplies.  Thirty-one and Coil, having been on their first skirmish only that morning, were proudly painting their armor, seaming the edges of each piece in the yellow-orange of the 224th as they talked about designs.  One of the two new shinies, only a day on Mimban and absently scratching his short-cut hair, had his blaster in his lap as he read up on some regulations pertaining to equipment maintenance.  Tuur had found his blaster unacceptable at inspection.

Card and Tack were in their side-by-side bunks quietly talking as they played a game of Hi-Lo, Card’s bandaged arm only slightly stiff as he shuffled the deck, the other shiny standing behind Tack and closely watching how the game was played.

Punch glanced at the medic to see an expression of quiet fondness and contentment on Tenaut’s face as he also let his gaze fall upon his brothers in the barracks.  He smiled softly, closed his eyes and his lips began moving.

Punch knew those words.   _Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum._  He knew them though he didn’t say them for anyone.  Long ago, he had promised he wouldn’t say them for anyone except Sketch.  All clones were bred and trained for battle.  Death would be inevitable.

Tenaut had quite a few names.  He smiled between some of them, giving a special benediction.   _You would have laughed, Runner,_ his lips moved.  And once, _I miss you every day, Shuk._  He took a deep breath and blew it out, finished.

“Tenaut,” Punch called and Tenaut’s eyes opened.  “Tell me about your Kamino vode.”

There was a hiss.  “Punch,” Sergeant Tuur’s voice was a hard reprimand.  “We don’t talk about Tenaut’s Kamino brothers.”

Punch tilted his head in curiosity but it was Tenaut who asked.

“Why not, Sergeant?”

Tuur looked down at the datapad then into the medic’s expression of pain.  “Because of that, Tenaut.”  He gestured to Tenaut’s face, pale and bleak.  “Because it hurts you too much.”

Tenaut’s expression turned to surprise.  “I don’t mind talking about my Kamino brothers, Tuur.  It would be good to share my vode with you, with all of you.”

“It brought you pain.  You often couldn’t sleep afterwards.”  Sergeant Tuur looked both shocked and distraught.  “You always seem...”

“There’s no pain in remembering,” Tenaut’s voice was soft.  “The pain was in thinking no one else wanted to hear about them.”

There was silence in the barracks, only the comforting sound of the rain thrumming against the upper deck as every trooper heard those words.  

“I’m sorry, Ten,” Tuur seemed about to cry for the invisible wound he had delivered to the squad’s medic.  “I never realized how much I must have hurt you.”

Card looked up from his bunk and sat face Tenaut, pushing aside the deck.  “They must have been good vode, Tenaut, ‘cause you’re one of the best.”

Tack sat crosslegged on his bunk and nodded.  “I once heard,” he said quietly in the weight of a taboo broken, “the general tell Captain Top that there weren’t many squads like Tenaut’s first.  ‘Good, capable men’; those were his exact words, Ten.  ‘Good, capable men, Top.  I miss them’.”

The shiny glanced up from his blaster and the manual.  He opened his mouth then closed it.  He took a breath and looked at them all.  “You _are_ my first squad,” he said in a slightly raspy voice.  The other rookie, between Tack and Card nodded his head.

Tenaut’s eyes glistened.  “They were good brothers.”

Punch listened as Tenaut told about his first squad, the brothers that had come out of Kamino with him.  He glanced over once to see Sergeant Tuur looking at him with curious intensity.

\----------

“Kriffing, backends shebs of a…”

The voice was a muttered litany of profanities making it easy to find Tack on night watch.

HIs armor wasn’t so white anymore.  Rain spatter had give it a covering of black mud shading in ombre tones of dark at the knees, fading lighter to his helmet in high contrast to Punch's clean armor.

“What’s the word?”  His voice was weary but he was still awake and that was all he needed to be five hours into night watch.

“White specter,” cited Punch and Tack lowered the blaster.

“What are you doing here?”

Punch shrugged.  “Couldn’t sleep.”

Tack snorted in disbelief, turning his attention toward the outer boundary.  The droids hadn’t made an attack on the compound since before Punch had arrived on Mimban but night watch was a standard duty and Tuur had a tendency to assign it as punishment.  

Punch was quiet as Tack checked in with the command center and the other troopers on duty.

“All quiet in the mud pits of Mimban.”  Then Tack turned toward Punch.  “A clone can always sleep, Punch.  What are you really doing here?”

“You had back to back duty, Tack.  I just thought I’d keep you company until the end of watch.  That’s all.”

“Sergeant send you to see if I fell asleep on duty?”  Tack voice was disgusted, but most at himself and Punch knew he’d been reciting curses to keep himself awake.

“Tuur didn’t send me, Tack, and if you’d rather I go back to the barracks just tell me and I’ll return.”

There was silence for a moment then Tack turned with drooping shoulders.  “No, Punch.  I’d appreciate the company.”

\-----------

Coming from the shower, Punch heard the slam of something against the wall and opened the door cautiously.

“Is it safe to come in?” There was a bucket in a slow twisting spin at his feet and, when he peer around the corner, he saw Card viciously slamming tools into their case.

Punch bent and picked up the helmet in one hand.  “I assume it's shorting again and you didn’t get it fixed.”

“No.”  Card’s response was interrupted by him jerking back his hand.  “Fekkin’ mirosk,” he muttered as a thin stream of red flowed down his fingers.  Jester dropped the bucket on Card’s bunk.

“I’ll get a bacta-thin for that, you go rinse it.  Tools usually have a protective layer of oils you don’t want in a wound.”

When Card returned, Punch inspected the cut then spread the bacta-thin on it.  “Make sure to tell Tenaut.  He’ll want to check it in a day or so.”

“So long as he doesn’t report it as a battle wound,” joked Card.  “I’d hate vode to think I lost a battle with a fekking piece of equipment.” He slapped his helmet with his other hand.

“What’s the matter with it?”  

“It hasn’t been working right.  Not since I got here.  Your adjustments that first week helped, but it still keeps shorting out.  When it’s really bad, I only hear about every third word and my filters shuffle randomly.”

“Kriff, Card.  That’s bad.  Have you checked with supply about getting another bucket?”

Card shook his head.  “They don’t have any extras and I don’t want a dead vode’s armor.  Not like that.”

Punch sat next to Card on the bed.  “Let’s see what we can diagnose.”

\----------

The squad was laughing, off-duty in fatigues, and heading off to the mess when Sergeant Tuur spoke.

“Punch, I’d like to see you for just a moment.”

Punch froze, expressionless, as he’d done whenever Sergeant Slick had called him into the office.  Meetings with Sergeant Slick were never good.  Then he relaxed, knowing it wouldn’t be a meeting of trying to guess what the sergeant wanted.  Tuur wasn’t Slick.

He stood at parade rest in front of Tuur, relaxed and prepared as any clonetrooper was with his superior, his personal helmet chip on the table along with the sergeant’s official copy.

Sergeant Tuur gazed up into his face thoughtfully. "You didn't strike me as much when you got here, Punch; no better and no worse than any other trooper."  Tuur slipped both chips into the datapad, there was the slight hum then Tuur removed them, setting one of the desk and pushing one in front of Punch.  "But everyone in the squad has separately told me they think you'd make a good sergeant’s second. They say you're involved with them, that you cover them not only on the battlefield but in the mess or in the gym. They say you offer good suggestions and have even taken on extra work particularly in building squad rapport.”

“What about Card, sir?  I don’t want to interfere in the way the squad is already run.”  Punch paused then spoke as if he’d just discovered something.  “It’s a good squad, good vode.”

Tuur smiled.  “Card was the first to suggest you.  Coil and Thirty-one appreciated you showing them a few moves for the betting about the best in hand-to-hand among the shinies.  Everyone is pleased about the helmets functioning much better.  And, Tenaut,” Sergeant Tuur looked at the wall shaking his head with regret.  “I never realized how much I was responsible for by forbidding the squad to talk about his Kamino brothers.  Thank you for clearing that up, Punch.”  He turned his face back to Punch.  “Thank you, Sergeant’s Second.  Dismissed.”

Then Tuur grinned.  “You’d better hurry to mess, they’ve got something a little special planned for you.”

Punch grinned back and laughed as he slipped the chip back into his helmet.

It was a good squad.

Sketch would have liked them. **  
**


	6. The Color of Hope

It was dank and drizzly as they moved through the marshy ground in between the large trees draped with strands of moss and ropey vines.  Only the leaf cover of the big trees protected them; the foliage thick enough to make the heavy rain merely a mist at ground level but it also dimmed the ambient light and gave a green tone to everything.

General Nyrm seemed almost invisible against the tree, his faded indigo and brown Jedi robes apparently morphing into the shadows and the texture of the bark.  His wrinkled face and the white skein of his beard disappeared in the cool shadows under the tree canopy while his hands, with their faded, curling tattoos, looked like nothing more than small animals crawling on the tree.  Unmoving, General Nyrm looked like a part of the forest.

He had gestured the company to stillness then rapidly climbed the tree with fine agility to stop on that one outreaching branch and observe.  

Though there was really nothing to observe, the cover too thick to see through the trees and mosses and vines.

Overhead, above the thick canopy of the swamp trees, one of the constant storms of Mimban raged and roared.  Punch could hear it but it seemed far away and in the background as the squads moved forward, protected from the rain by the thick foliage and leaves of the trees.  The rain ran down the trees, collected in the crevices of bark and flowing to the roots.  Only a faint mist seemed to condense on their armor.  The gray-green dimness was occasionally brightened by the electrical storm.

“Fek!”  It came from one of the shinies, Thirty-one.  “Is the general still there?”

“Switch to IR,” advised Sergeant Tuur.

Punch waited a moment, then spoke privately to the sergeant.  “There’s too much greenery for straight IR, sir.  An HMS filter would work better.”

Punch worried his lips nervously at the long silence from the sergeant.  He hadn’t been Tuur’s second very long and his previous sergeant had hated being told better ways of doing something.  “This is the way they taught on Kamino,” Slick would say angrily, usually adding a demerit, “and that’s the way we do it.”

After a moment, Tuur nodded.  “Try your heat signature filter, squad.  Around thirty percent, Punch?”

Punch breathed a sigh of relief then realized he’d been holding his breath wondering if Tuur would be like Slick and give him a demerit for thinking he knew better than his sergeant.  “Thirty should be perfect, sir.”  

Gently the general reached out his hand, blazing orange-red in the filter, and plucked a small leaf from the tree then dropped from the branch to land agilely in front of them.  Sergeant Tuur recommended neutral filters to the squad and Punch gave a nod to himself as he switched to polarizing.  

General Nyrm held out the leaf in the palm of his outstretched hand as if offering a gift to Captain Top.

“This shade of green is my favorite color.”  The old Jedi gently patted the bark of the tree he had climbed, almost affectionately, then turned his head and softly spoke to the troopers.  “I’ve always thought of it as the color of life and hope.”

Punch was close to the general and, peering over his shoulder, he glanced at the leaf held in the general’s gnarled hand.  It was translucent green, small and blade-like, delicately veined, smooth and curled in on itself in the palm of Nyrm’s calloused hand, hard and wrinkled.  It was beautiful and Punch nodded; seeing it as Sketch might see it, seeing it as a piece of art.

He pushed aside the pang of loneliness he felt.

“Individually, they’re small but, as countless as they are, they provide a suitable cover against the rain.”  The general poked at the leaf with a fingertip.

“General Nyrm,” Captain Top’s voice was fondly patient.  “We’re looking for the droids.”

Nyrm turned his head from the troopers with a sigh as he gazed at the leaf in his hand.  “So young.”  His voice was a murmur they had to strain to hear.  He glanced around, blinking in surprise to be the center of so much attention.  

“Yes?  Ah, yes? Ah, yes, yes, the droids.  About 1000 meters, due gorllewin.”  He shook his head at their confused body language.  “Sorry, wrong language.  Due…” he faltered, unable to remember a word then pointed.  “In that direction.  Two hundred and forty-three or so individuals; some of the larger droids but mostly the usual.  About fifteen of the larger.”  He tilted his head, still gazing at the little leaflet, and chuckled.  “They’re coming through the swamp river.”

Sergeant Tuur laughed then explained for the Kamino rookies in the squad through his helmet link.  “Droids don’t deal well with water and mud.”

“More than that, Night,” the general spoke as though he’d heard Tuur.  “There will be a flood.”  He tickled the leaf gently with a finger.  “Already the tree roots upriver are too saturated to hold any more water.  If we can keep the droids to lower ground right along the river until past nightfall, the floodwaters should prove in our advantage.  The waters will go no higher than…”  The general gestured about thigh-high on the captain then slightly higher; about waist-high on the spindly man leading them.

“Sir,” it was a panicked voice from Coil a few steps from Punch and the blaster in his hand was waving around as he lightly shook his leg.  “There something in my armor.”

“Don’t move, trooper,” ordered the general, his eyes wide in apprehension for the trooper.  Coil stopped waving his leg but was off-balance.  Punch grabbed his arm, holding him balanced for the moment it took Tuur to brace Coil from the back.  

General Nyrm was on his knees, his fingers digging into the small crevices of Coil’s armor as he murmured in some unknown language interspersed with Basic.  “Not this time. I won’t have it”

Something long and thin seemed to whip around Coil and twice Punch felt it moving into his gauntlet, leaving a trail like ice, then back into Coil’s vambrace.  He ran through filters, hoping to find something that would locate it as it moved around Coil’s armor but the closest he could come was in a combination of UV and tertiary spectrum that shouldn’t have seen anything.

Tentatively, he spoke up to the general.  “Is it the purple mist around Coil’s right hip?”

“Could be, could be.  Tell me if it moves, Punch.”  His fingers moved up the crevice of Coil’s thigh plate.  “Don’t move, Coil, it can be quite deadly.  Or worse.”

“What could be worse than deadly?” Captain Top asked quietly as he directed two squads with a gesture; one to scout ahead and the other to cover their rear.

“Painfully deadly,” answered the general.  “Ah, I have it.”

Punch spoke at the same time.  “It’s moving, sir, towards his left arm.”

Punch was holding the left arm and it seemed the purple smoke was coming for him.

“Not today,” growled the general.  “I have you.”

The general was as good as his word as the purple mist stopped moving almost as if the general had jerked it back by the tail end.  “Give me room boys and no blasting.  It will draw the recon droids in the area.”

Punch changed his bucket back to natural view, as much because the general had control of the thing that appeared mist-like in the filter as because he was effectively blind.

“How did that get into your armor?”  Thirty-one’s voice held shock and Punch understood why.

The general’s fist was around the neck of a long, thin watersnake, several violet-striped coils looping around his arm and the thing was still dragging in the mud.  

“Yeah, Coil.  Something that big, you should have noticed…”

“This particular breed of snake is quite subtle.”  General Nyrm was looking at the serpent, inspecting it as he turned his hand around then he moved away from the troopers.  “It won’t bother us again,” he said as he set the writhing coils on the ground near several large tree roots.  The purple-striped reptile turned and hissed then sulked into the crevice of two overlapping tree roots.

Card had his vibroknife out and extended it toward the general.  “Are you sure it’s better to let it go?”

“Oh, yes.”  The general’s face was grim in sorrow.  “There are some times when you can’t win and your best choice is to simply walk away.”  He glanced around at the troopers with a broad smile though his eyes were moist.  “I’m so proud of you for not blasting the creature.  I think it would have been loud enough to alert the droids by the river. Let us be on our way.”  He gestured with his hands and the troopers began to move out.  Card replaced the vibroknife in its sheath and Punch, waiting for him, looked back to see the general staring at the direction the snake had slithered off.

“Really, Mim,” said Nyrm softly.  “That’s cheating.”  

Punch swore he heard laughter on the wind and he glanced at Nyrm with his eyes wide and his mouth open in shock.

Turning, Nyrm smiled at him in surprised delight, as if he could actually see Punch’s face, then gestured them forward toward the river and the droids.  The general took a step then stopped and picked up the leaf he had dropped.  He set it back on the tree he had plucked it from with gentle care.

Punch hoped he didn’t die this battle, he wanted to ask the general what that had been about. **  
**


	7. Guardian Angels

 

“Ordered retreat, boys!”  General Nyrm shouted as he seemed to float in the air for a moment before dropping into the midst of advancing tinnies like a bolt of lightning.  His light saber, sizzling as rainwater touched the beam, cast light in the mist which seemed only to amplify the similarity in the exchange of blue and red blaster bolts.

“Ordered retreat,” Captain Top echoed the general’s orders through the comm link for those who might have missed his voice in the noise of Mimban rainfall, droid attach and blaster fire, “Flame, cover Blast’s squad.  Tuur, you have Heft’s.”

Heft was one of Captain Top’s original squad and Punch felt a flare of pride to know Top had asked Tuur’s squad to cover Sergeant Heft in the river bed.

To the right of Punch was Card, both of them just a little forward of the rest of the squad hidden by the vines and mosses growing wildly in the boundary of the gully.  To his left was the shiny they were beginning to call Whyer because of his questions.  It was his first skirmish and he was holding well.  “Doing good, Twenty-one,” Punch called out in encouragement on the squad channel.  “Card, keep an eye on Heft, you know he’s last to retreat.”   Sergeants always were; almost as bad as the good captains, Even Sergeant Slick had usually been... 

Punch pushed the memory away and looked down the line of hidden troopers.  “We doing good, squad, but ease up on fire rate.  We don’t want them to notice us.”

“Don’t destroy them all before they reach mid-river,” called out Blast from his place ankle-deep in a line of mud. “We promise to leave you a few.”

There was laughter at his banter only partially at his words but mostly because the droids were advancing as General Nyrm and Captain Top predicted. 

“There’s always more where those came from,” quipped Sergeant Tuur from his position with Flame’s squad.  Flame’s squad was mostly rookies and Tuur had relinquished his squad to Punch and Card to help the shinies stay steady.

“Guardian angels,” Punch murmured beneath his breath as he targeted several B1s in rapid succession bearing heavily on Tap.  It was what Nyrm had said, ‘You’ll be our guardian angels while we made our stand in the riverbed.’  

“Tenaut,” he called, “pull back and prep for wounded.  Tap just went down with a leg wound.”  Punch took aim at the droids as Clever, trusting his brothers above him, reached down and pulled Tap towards the edge of marshy mud. 

“Prepping med,” exclaimed Tenaut as he holstered his blaster and moved from the end of the line to behind a boulder.

The droids converged on the hole left by the two troopers, now a weak area of Blast’s squad.  “Come on, Tack.  Let’s see if we can give Tap and Clever breathing room.”

“With you, Punch,” replied Tack paralleling Punch’s blaster shots on the other side of Clever as he pulled Tap through the mud towards the higher bank.

“Hey!  There’s mo...”  It was the high excited voice of one of the droids looking up the incline and Tuur blasted it before it finished pointing out the troopers on higher ground hidden among the plantlife.  So far, only a few of the droids had noticed the hidden troopers and those few had been immediately dispatched.

“Tenaut,” shouted Coil above the battlefield noise, “Lieutenant’s shoulder hit, backing unassisted.  Captain’s at his side.”

“A little faster,” called out Nyrm in a sing-song voice as he nimbly danced between the attacking droids, his light saber flickering, seen then unseen, as he moved among them.

“Retreat.  Double-time it; Heft, Blast.”  Top told them as he kept pace with his wounded brother.  The troopers backed faster to the higher ground as the droids on the edge of the muddy riverbed seemed to double in number moving forward.

Three things happened at the same time.  Punch heard a rushing sound reminiscent of the waves on Kamino but higher pitched and knew the floodwaters had arrived.  General Nyrm swept his light saber in a circle, slicing through several droids even as he deflected two blasts and yelled “It’s here! Higher ground, now!  Twenty-five heartbeats.  Move, run.” 

And Art slipped on some wet, mud-slicked, water-soaked patch of bog.  He fell to the ground, his arms flying up though he kept a tight grip on his blaster.  “Go,” he shouted as he fell.  “I’m fine.”  He rose to his knees, firing at the converging droids, but slipped again as he tried to rise.

It seemed the more he tried to escape the mud, the slicker it became and his efforts seemed futile.  He rose to his feet then fell as he turned, coating the front of his armor with the same black mud as the back.

“Tack,” yelled Punch, “with me on Art.  Twenty-one, you too.”  The droids converging on Art walked into a hail of blue blaster fire from the troopers but Art slipped even further, his bucket falling face first into the mud.

Sergeant Heft turned, his own blaster blazing into the droids.  “Art,” he yelled and took a step toward the trooper.

“Fine, sir. Go!” was the reply but Art had lost his blaster in one of the falls and still hadn’t risen from the mud.  Even as they watched and fired on the wave of droids, his hands, gauntlets desperately gripping the small blades of moss for some sort of balance, slipped. 

Punch glanced upriver where a wall of water was bearing down on the trooper in the middle of the river’s path.

Heft pushed off his foot to run to his trooper and Captain Top yelled out to him, “Heft, no!” 

Heft hadn’t gotten a leap forward before being slammed backwards into his squad.

“I’ve got him,” Nyrm shouted as he come out of the mass of droids only now beginning to realize it had been a trap.  He pushed off the shoulders of an SBD, soaring as his cloak seemed to become the wings of some ominous bird of prey swooping down on Art. 

The droids, retreating from the water’s path, weren’t of concern anymore and Punch watched as the general seemed to not touch the ground as he reached and pulled Art from the mud by the upper arm.  Upright, Art began running with the general but Punch saw they wouldn’t make it.

“Belaying lines,” he yelled company-wide in his bucket, as he slammed a cartridge into his blaster.  The lines wouldn’t hold in the soft riverbed, but if Art and the general got lucky, they’d be able to grab a line and be pulled to the waterbank.

Belaying lines whistled down into the muddy ground around the pair and both men reached even as the water slammed into them, rolling them into the rapids.

Punch held his breath as the water pulled the lines tight and the troopers began pulling their lines back.

“Here,” shouted Garl, curling his arm around the blaster barrel as he was being dragged closer and closer to the river.  He leaned back and dug his heels into the ground as his squad-vode grabbed him.  They all pulled, wrestling the raging river for the prize and, after a moment, Art’s gauntleted hand gripping the line rose from the surface. 

After another breathless moment Thirty-one call out.  “Here.”  There was a moment’s pause then Thirty-one spoke again.  “I think.”

“There’s no pull,” said Tuur at his side, shaking his head.  “It’s just debris in the rapids.”

“General only weighs 60 kilos,” shouted Tenaut as he tended Cover’s shoulder.

“He might be using the Force to make it easier,” exclaimed Tack as he moved closer to the water where Thirty-one’s line entered it.  He took a few steps into the water, holding onto the line with one hand and fishing into the water with his other.  He jerked still for an instant then his shouts brought other troopers to his aid.  “Yes!  He’s here!  I’ve got him, I’ve got him!”

Both General Nyrm and Art were coughing and laughing as the spat out mouthfuls of muddy water and grime.  The general looked bedraggled, his cape had been ripped from him and was lost to the river.

In a choking laugh, the general gestured over the river’s surface. “I notice,” he coughed, “a distinct lack of droids.”

“Your plan worked, General,” said Captain Top with a grin which faded, “though we almost lost you and Art.” 

“I’m glad we’re not lost,” said Nyrm as he looked around at the troopers then at Art who was emptying mud from his bucket with a few mild curses. “I don’t want to lose you, Art.”  His voice held real emotion, pain which Punch could identify and a deep abiding emotion he didn’t know but felt when thinking  of Sketch. 

General Nyrm swept the circle of troopers around him and Art.  “I don’t want to lose any of you.” 


	8. Night Pause

The constant rains of Mimban made troop movements difficult. Even when the rainfall itself was held back by the leaves of the trees, the water found ways to trickle towards the planet's surface. It would drip from the leaves, spattering on the white curve of a helmet. It would channel itself down the crevices in the bark of the trees into puddles and ponds, creating marshy ground pulling at their armor boots. It would simply mist to hang in the air, humidity so thick a trooper could swipe his hand in the air creating a mouthful of water in his palm.

"How's Lieutenant Cover?" Captain Top's voice came through the comm link. "And our scout?"

Punch noticed that Tap's condition was almost an afterthought to the captain.

The head medic, Bone, answered. "Both Lieutenant Cover, Tap, and the men assisting them could use a rest."

"I'm fine," muttered Tap but Clever gave him a smack in the bucket that resounded through the undergrowth.

"I don't have to do that to you, do I?" Sergeant Heft mock-threatened Cover. Cover just raised his single working hand.

"No, I'll be good until the medics declare me duty-fit."

 _Good vode_ , thought Punch as he glanced at Art. Though unwounded by the tinnies, he'd been in that cold, rushing river a bit long and his breathing was more raspy than before. He occasionally pulled his arm into his side and Punch thought he might have been banged against a boulder or tree as they had fished him to shore. Punch thought his sergeant, Heft, might have noticed but decided not to count on it.

 _Another of Slick's legacy_ , he realized. _Don't count on anyone or anything._

"Tenaut," Punch commed through the squad link. "You've noticed Art?"

"Yes, Punch. Heft and Bone knows he's stressing and won't be able to keep up if we need to double-time it."

"Our two fish, as well, Captain," continued Bone. "No matter what the general says."

Some of the troopers laughed and General Nyrm shook his head, a wry twist of a smile on his lips.

"I won't naysay anyone who outranks me," he chuckled. "There are no droids about but if we can manage another two miles, there's an overhang where we can shelter out of the rain for the night."

It was a deep overhang that narrowed into a cave going into the ground. While it wasn't quite tall enough to stand in, it was dry with tumbled boulders providing both cover in case of an attack and some seating. Art slumped wearily on a boulder as the two battle-wounded were made as comfortable as possible. Bone saw to the lieutenant, Tal checked Tap's leg, and Tenaut ignored Art's wave to begin pulling off his chest armor talking over his words.

"Don't try to tell me you didn't crack a few ribs, Art. I know better."

Tiredly, Art removed his bucket and nodded, his tattooed brows drawing together in pain as he capitulated to Tenaut's ministrations. "No argument, Tenaut. I just thought I could make it back to base without being any trouble."

"No trouble, vod. No trouble." Tenaut's voice was soft.

"With me, Punch," Tuur ordered as he began to check the squad as Punch moved to his side. "Drink up," he told them. "I'd never be able to show my face if any of my squad suffered dehydration on watery Mimban."

His men chuckled, but they pulled out their canteens.

"Tack, Twenty-one, Sergeant's second tells me you did very well in covering Heft's squad, especially Art when he fell. Good work.  I'll mark that in your records."

Tack and Twenty-one grinned and touched their canteens together in a victory toast as Tuur continued to each trooper in his squad, letting them know how proud he was to be their sergeant.

 _Unlike Sergeant Slick_ , thought Punch.

Sergeant Tuur turned to Punch. "You and Card did very well leading the squad. That was an excellent idea about the belaying lines. I'm glad you're my second, Punch. I was hesitant because you seem so withdrawn at times but the troopers were right." He gestured to where General Nyrm and a few others were making a small fire of the dried moss clinging to the stone walls. "Shall we join them?"

There was only a slight chill in the air of Mimban's but the small fire appeared comforting in the coming darkness. Several more small fires were being made and tended by vode further back in the cave and Punch heard the noises of victory in their quiet words.

For a while he simply listened as he sat, somewhat at attention, at the General's fire. Captain Top reported that Lieutenant Cover shoulder and Tap's leg would need a bacta immersion once they reached the base but the troopers were in no imminent danger. Tenaut reported to Tuur that Art had several cracked ribs and was now on light duty for a while, particularly if he showed further symptoms of respiratory distress. He reminded the General that he, too, needed to be certified as fit for duty by a medic.

"Certify away," Nyrm had chuckled as he stood, letting the medic run a few diagnostics. Satisfied, Tenaut moved back to Art, sitting next to him in the dimness further back in the cave.

Slowly, as day dimmed into evening, troopers chewed on rations, talked a bit and relaxed into sleep. Captain Top moved back to where Lieutenant Cover slept. Punch felt comfortably warm and unaccountably safe near the fire and his vode. Sergeant Tuur had remained there as well as most of his squad; Card, Coil, Thirty-one and Twenty-one."

"Punch," questioned General Nyrm, "may I know the filters you used to see that snake. I wouldn't have thought it would be viewable; it's body temperature would have merged with Coil's body temperature." He tugged lightly at his beard, his fingers running over the beads. "Unless the bodysuit causes a difference?"

Punch laughed with a shake of his head. "The bodysuit might have made a slight difference, but not the type of difference I saw. The snake appeared like purple smoke. Everything else appeared blackened out." Punch reached for his bucket and set the hologram to project what he'd seen.

Coil's reaction was to stand and excuse himself from the small group. "I'll keep Tenaut and Art company. Sir." He nodded at the general as he moved towards the back of the overhanging rock.

"Fascinating," Nyrm said as he tucked the end of his beard between his lips then pursing them tightly. He leaned back, observing the blue-tinted hologram showing nothing more than a thin line of violet haze glowing faintly as it moved down the blackness of Coil's arm. "Truly fascinating, Punch. The Jedi will want to study it a while but I believe you've found a filter combination that can see the Force."

"What is the Force, General Nyrm, sir," asked Twenty-one. "If we're allowed to know. that is."

"The Force," Nyrm mused as the glow of the fire cast shadows over his face. In the flickering red gleam, his features looked oddly juxtaposed and seemed to change even as Punch watched. He appeared youthful and aged; angelic and demonic, sagely and demented.

"There's no rule against knowing," began Nyrm. He shrugged. "As far as I know. The Force is life. It is everywhere and everything; part of us and individual to itself, accessible to anyone and everyone. At times, it can touch anyone but there are a few individuals who have continual access and awareness of its presence. Force-users. What most of us forget is that we only know one facet of something very great and glorious. The facet we know isn't the totality of the Force. What we know is limited." He sighed, his expression now simply old and tired. "Forgetting that can be fatal."

"I'd think you'd never forget something like that," Thirty-one said.

Nyrm shrugged and, with a tilt of his head, continued speaking. "When was the last time you noticed the air you were breathing? You notice its lack very quickly but for its constancy, it's unnoticed."

"It usually isn't the air, sir. It's the body's reaction to missing the oxygen that make us notice it." Tenaut sat as Card made room for him and handed the medic a canteen. "Even without it, we don't notice air, we notice our bodies dying.  I've heard there's a Chosen One of the Jedi."

Nyrm shrugged. His lips tightened as he tossed a small clump of the moss into the fire. "Chosen One." His words were almost disdainful. "There's always a Chosen One."

"Why?"

The general smiled at the young trooper. "You're working on your name, Twenty-one."

The trooper smiled. "I'm still thinking about it but it wouldn't be a bad name. Whyer."

"It's a very good name, actually," said Nyrm. "All of the best philosophers of all cultures have been questioners. Whyers - so to speak."

Twenty-one laughed with the other troopers. "I don't feel philosophical."  There was laughter and Card slapped Twenty-one on the arm.

"Philosopher," he chuckled at the younger clone.

"So, why is there always a Chosen One?" Nyrm mused as the laughter mellowed and he poked his beard tip in the other side of his lips. "The nature of the beast, I suppose. The Force changes. Heterostasis, I believe it's called." He glanced for confirmation from Tenaut who nodded. "The Chosen One is merely the fulcrum when there's a change or a shift. The Chosen One is merely the point in the middle of everything."

"Like a point man? Leading the others?" Sergeant Tuur leaned forward, as curious as the rest of them.

Nyrm stared into the fire for a moment then shook his head. "More like a sergeant balancing his squad against the odds; guessing with a little intel and knowledge of the battlefield and placing his men." The general's thin hands and arms reached up in a motion like stirring the air. "Then reacting and moving his troopers as the information and the odds become clearer. But a Chosen One has to be strong because the conflict will tear him apart."

"Like a captain, then. Like Top." Card contributed but the general was already speaking.

"That also answers your question about forgetting, Thirty-one. It is the nature of the beast. Most Chosen Ones break because they forget that the Force is working through them. A Force-user becomes acclimated to using the Force in certain ways and forgets that the Force is not simply the power to toss things about, to heal, or create lightning. The Force is more but all people tend to ignore things that are omnipresent. As Tenaut pointed out, we don't notice the air.  Does a fish notice the water surrounding it?"

Punch frowned. "I don't know, but I notice the difference in the air if it's warm or cold or ozone-bitter."

Nyrm grinned as if Punch was a particularly bright cadet.

"Yes, Punch, you notice the difference of what is _in_ the air; heat or lack thereof. The bitterness of blaster-smoke or the electrical burn of hydrogen by lightning. The smell of decaying vegetation in the swamp. You notice those tiny molecules carried by the air as the fish notices the molecules carried by the water, but do you notice the _air_?"

Punch frowned, staring downward into the glowing embers as he thought about it.

"Once you notice the air, Punch, the Force isn't very far away." General Nyrm whispered encouragingly. Then he stood and stretched. "I'll be taking night watch. You boys had a hard battle today and deserve a rest."

"Thank you, sir," offered Sergeant Tuur, "but regulations require at least two for night watch." The sergeant looked over his squad to choose a trooper.

Nyrm chuckled, "Then join me, Night, and we will keep our charges safe for another day."

Punch hid his grin, as did most of the squad. Tuur had been named for giving night watch as his standard demerit duty but he couldn't ignore an order from the general.

Sergeant Tuur had a surprised expression on his face then he grabbed his helmet with a laugh that echoed through the troopers of his squad.

"With you, sir."


	9. The Duty of a Brother

"Frictionless."

It was little more than a muttered whisper but it caught Punch's attention and he turned his head to see Art sitting alone at the mess table.

"Pardon?" Punch turned with his tray in hand, noting that none of Art's squad-brothers were in the near-empty mess. He gave a nod to Card who nodded back and went to sit in the rear as if he didn't want to be disturbed. He and Card planned to discuss the squad to bring suggestions to Sergeant Tuur, but Art had been noticeably quiet since returning from the river skirmish. Particularly since Garl had set the entire scene of Art's fall to music. It was currently a popular source of amusement among many of the troopers. All Punch could think of was what kind of comments would they make if they saw the picture Sketch had drawn.

"Care if I join you?"

Art shrugged, his eyebrows coming down in thought as his thumb rubbed some blackness over two fingertips, wondering if he wanted to be disturbed. He glanced up at Punch and a quick grin quirked the corner of his mouth before he was, once again, expressionless.

"Sure." He raised his black-coated fingertips for Punch's inspection. "It's frictionless. The gunk I slipped in. I brought back plenty of samples in my armor and bodysuit. I've checked it on the tribometer and the friction coefficient is nearly zero." He paused, again rubbing his fingers and thumb together. "It will make a really good lubricant for tank parts or almost anything mechanical with almost no refining."

"Are you good, then?" Punch set his tray to one side on the table and sat across from Art. "Are you satisfied that no trooper would have made any more progress in the riverbed than you did? That's what you're concerned about, isn't it? That you messed up somehow?"

Art simply stared at the small container of black goo. He wiped his fingers clean and slowly, firmly capped the container. Punch waited, watching as Art's eyebrows twitched in thought. They really were excellent work, he didn't think Sketch could have done any better and that was the best praise he could think of.

Art sighed. "It isn't that, Punch. At least, not exactly."

"Then what, vode?"

Again, a smile flitted across Art's expression at the word before the somber non-expression dominated.

"Captain Top didn't want the sergeant to rescue me." He stared at the table and the vial of black goo. "No, Heft. That's what he yelled out when Heft was going to come for me. He yelled it as a captain's order; No, Heft." Art pushed the vial of goo back and forth between his fingers. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, quietly. "Maybe I did mess up somewhere."

"He was worried about Heft. That's all, Art. Heft is one of his original Kamino vode; his brother by choice same as the Lieutenant. He'd just seen Cover wounded and he didn't want Heft to be injured or killed." Punch understood that kind of protectiveness.

"Yeah. That's what I tell myself. That if I had a vode, I wouldn't care about anyone else. But, it doesn't seem right." Art looked into Punch's eyes. "And, I think I would. Care about other brothers, I mean. I would think that having a brother-by-choice would make me care more about my other vode. Not less. I mean..." His voice faded as he stared down then stood so abruptly the chair screeched against the floor. Art grabbed the small jar of frictionless mud and stared at Punch. "I don't know what I mean." His face was stricken as he rushed from the room.

Punch picked up his tray joined Card at the back table with a sigh. Art was right.

"What's that about, Punch?" Card asked as Punch sat across from him. "The holo that Garl did?"

"Art is worried Captain Top doesn't want him in the company."

Card's jaw dropped a bit. "Art's one of the best. Why wouldn't the captain want to keep him?" Then he shrugged, "Not our squad, not our problem."

Punch took a drink of the warm, nutrient-dense soup as he thought of his reply. "They're all our vode, Card. I won't limit my concern simply to our squad."

"Captain was just being protective of his Kamino-vod." Card shrugged dismissively and shoveled topato-mash into the creamy gravy covering the steak then stirred it to the perfect consistency.

"I understand that, Card. So does Art, but he's right; a captain of a company cannot have that kind of protectiveness for just one or two of his troopers."

"I think I might be that protective," admitted Card. "If I had a brother-by-choice." Then he laughed. "But, I don't see myself making sergeant, must less captain so I can't see it would make any difference."

"Can you see that it would be difference for a captain?"

Card frowned, aimlessly pushing steak cubes through the gravy, then he slowly nodded. "Yeah," his voice held a surprised tone and he nodded several times in secession. "Yeah, I can see that. A captain has too many vode to be concerned about. Like a medic, he'd have to, I don't know, triage what's going on between his troopers and his vode in some way." He stabbed one of the cubes now covered with gravy and topato mash to pop into his mouth. "I don't get it," he said after a moment. "It's different but I don't get it." He grinned, "You do, don't you, Punch?"

When Punch nodded, Card laughed. "I was right. You do make a better second than I ever did. Now, I was thinking that Coil would make a good assistant for Tenaut..."

* * *

"You'll be on your own in a few short hours, boys," the general smiled as Punch entered the mess. "I've been called back to Coruscant." He gave a harsh grunt. "Politics of some sort, I suspect. It's always politics."

"General Nyrm, sir," Tenaut asked at the poke from Tuur and the anticipatory looks from a few others around the mess; experienced troopers. "Do you have time to tell us some more about the Unchanged King?"

"Hah," the old Jedi laughed as his face wrinkled with his wide smile. "Don't you boys ever get tired of him?"

Most of the troopers in the mess looked as perplexed as Punch felt, but a few troopers grinned and shook their heads.

"No, sir," rang some voices including Tenaut, Tuur, Card, Blast, and Bone. The general sat, gesturing to the table around him and troopers took the invitation to sit.

"The Unchanged King," began General Nyrm as he stared at the ceiling, "was my first charge. I had no beads in my beard then and it wasn't much of a beard, only a bit of fuzz on my chin. He was the first of the warriors I was called to assist. He was like you boys; brilliant and strong, and more experienced in battle than in life. It was a war-torn planet, full of petty little dictators claiming this little hill or that little valley." The general paused as he glanced over his audience and his voice hissed as he said the next words. "They thought small. They thought in terms of 'now' and 'power' and what they could gain. The Unchanged King thought in terms of centuries, of what the world could gain."

Punch noticed he was as silent and entranced by the General's words as the rest of the troopers. Someone had thought to set a helmet to recording the General as he spoke for troopers on duty.

"The Unchanged King, you understand, was not meant to be king. He was raised to be the king's most trusted man. The king's second," Nrym gestured at Punch and Clever, both sergeant's seconds. "He was meant to be the king's vod." He nodded at Lieutenant Cover, one of the captain's vode.

Tenaut set a glass of water to one side of the general who nodded gratefully.

"It was Resh who was meant to be king."

"Resh?" asked Sergeant Flame. "He was named after a letter?"

Nyrm nodded. "It was their naming system, took into account who they were related to, the day and season they were born, the cycles of the moons. So much information that had little to do with anything."

"Superstition, sir?" Tuur asked. "I've heard that many cultures are superstitious."

"Oh, most definitely superstition, but his call-name translates as Resh. A letter that indicated he was balanced and unexpectedly clever."

Clever grinned just to hear his name mentioned.

"Resh was older than the Unchanged King and, one might say, had less bad luck attached to his name. Due to this bad luck, there was great objection to the Unchanged King being granted sovereignty over the land, particularly by those small-thinking bandit-lords who thought only of today's profits."

The general paused and took a drink. Punch realized the entire mess was silent, listening to the general. He'd heard some few stories on Christophsis as well as some Mandalorian tales, but none told with the same skill as he was hearing now.

"It was shortly after sovereignty had been verified that he and Resh were traveling with a small band of men towards the capital to be sanctified by the priests, the final step in becoming king. There were perhaps thirty fighters," he paused, "being followed by two hundred men fully intent upon their murder."

"Why?" The question burst from Twenty-one as he stood in agitation and most of the troopers smiled to hear it from their company philosopher. "You just said he'd been verified. Shouldn't they have accepted him as king?"

General Nyrm smiled. "They should have. Ultimately, four of them did. However, if they killed him before the priests sanctified him as king, then it would only be battle loss and not the crime of murder or regicide."

Twenty-one sat down, his face wrinkling in thought and worry for someone he didn't know, and Punch patted him softly on the back.

"They'd come to the coast and were traveling quickly to avoid capture and death. As they moved along the coastline, they noted a spit of land and devised a plan. If most of the men stayed and fought at this narrow channel, it would give the Unchanged King time to make it to the capital and be sanctified. Before any man could complain about them sacrificing their lives for his, Resh stepped forward, tall and proud. 'I will hold them, my brother."

General Nyrm clenched his jaw and glanced down at the glass in his hands. "I will hold them, my brother." He almost whispered Resh's words. There was silence from every trooper.

From the general's reactions, Punch knew Resh was long-dead and it was sad to know someone so brave had died,but the important thing for most of the troopers was whether he had succeed in holding back those who would kill the Unchanged King. Punch realized he had, otherwise they wouldn't be hearing about the Unchanged King.

"It was the only time in their lives they didn't argue. They were always arguing about everything." A chuckle escaped from the general. "They argued about fish, targeting practice, whether or not it would rain, they argued about their mounts, their men, their capacity for alcohol - which they both lost - and, when the Unchanged King was being a bit of an arrogant prig only Resh would look into his face and tell him he was being an arrogant prig. You could count on Resh to be truthful and tactless."

"The battle, sir," asked Tenaut, though Punch knew that Resh had survived by General Nyrm's last sentence.

"Yes," nodded the general. "This time it was different. They didn't argue. They just stared at each other for a long moment. The Unchanged King nodded. 'Hold them, Resh,' he said. Resh turned to his brother, both in blood and spirit, and put his hands on the younger's shoulders. Remember that Resh was the elder with better luck to his name. He would have been king but he was the first to see the greatness in the young man who became the Unchanged King. 'I will hold them,' Resh said. 'I will not take one step in retreat and they will not pass'." The general's eyes glistened with tears.

"The king put his hand on Resh's shoulder. 'You do the impossible and hold them for two days and I will do the impossible and bring the army in the same amount of time.' Then he gripped Resh in a tight hug, afraid of losing him. As the few men mounted, another lord said Resh and the others had been condemned to death; that no one could hold against a force that much stronger."

"If they're evenly matched in weaponry, sir, I'd say the same thing," admitted Bone in a quiet voice.

"Evenly matched," nodded General Nyrm. "When the Unchanged King returned to that narrow spit of land, sanctified and with his new army, most of the men on both sides were dead. He found Resh, badly wounded, front and center of the defense and in those two days Resh had not taken a single step back."

"Did he die?" Twenty-one's voice asked the question they all wondered.

Nyrm stared at the table. "For a long time, he wanted to. That battle destroyed him in so many ways. He never regretted it, but he was angry and bitter for a long time. Not because of what he had lost but because he was no longer battle-worthy for the future."

"Did they recondition him?" Card's voice seemed loud in the near-silence of the mess.

General Nyrm was silent, seemingly staring into the past. "No, no. In time, he gathered other strengths and it was love that conquered his bitterness. The love of his brother and the love of family. Thirty years after that first battle, he armored up, kissed his wife and grandchildren, and with two sons,rode out to his brother's final defense knowing he would not return." There were bright tears in the general's eyes and he spoke in a choked whisper. "I miss those boys."

"I want that name, general sir," Twenty-one spoke quietly in the silence. "Have you any objections if I name myself Resh after him?

"None, Resh. He'd count you as a brother in battle."

Punch slapped newly-named Resh on the back as the pilot entered the mess, calling for the general.

There was a smile on General Nyrm's face as he slung his small pack over one shoulder. As he strode toward the door, he turned back and looked over the troopers congratulating Resh on his new name. His face beamed with pride. He caught Punch's eyes with his own and gave a small nod. Not for the story he had told, but for the troopers he led, for the similarity to 'his boys'.

Punch hoped he'd hear more about the Unchanged King and Resh, but at the moment, he needed to talk to Captain Top. He moved out of the mess and towards the captain's office.

* * *

"I have to take care of my vode," Captain Top shook his head. "You don't know what it's like, Punch, to have the responsibility of brothers."

Punch stiffened as if he'd been slapped in the face by the captain. "My brother Sketch," he began, inflecting the word to mean 'brother-by-choice', "would disown me if I didn't trust him in battle. He would hate me if I used my position; say, as a captain," Punch gestured his fingers around the privacy of the captain's quarters, "to provide him with a company's worth of personal bodyguards." Punch leaned forward, full of fury, his face nearly touching Captain Top's and his fists clenching in anger. "He would despise me for putting him above his other brothers and he'd be right." The last word came out as a growl.

"Stand down," ordered the captain in a fierce hiss of anger. "Or I will transfer you."

"Send me back," Punch challenged. "I may yet be able to find where they sent him. My brother-by-choice and I ended up separated because we treated the other vode in our squad as less than ourselves. As less important in all ways and unworthy of our trust. We were wrong."

"Punch," it was Sergeant Heft's calm voice and both Punch and Captain Top turned, equally surprised the sergeant had been able to enter the room without being noticed.

"This is my discussion with Top." Heft's body was relaxed and he even gave Punch the slightest smile. "You return to your squad."

"Sergeant Heft," began Captain Top angrily.

"You don't call me sergeant in that tone of voice, Top." Heft's voice was like frozen steel and his body tensed in combat-readiness as he turned toward the captain; toward his brother-by-choice. " _You_ have destroyed my squad."

He glanced at Punch. "Out," he ordered in a single word and Punch, recognizing anger he couldn't match, didn't even salute in his obedience to that order.


	10. Losing a Brother

The atmosphere was tense the next morning at mess.  Even if Punch had been the only one to be present at the start of the argument, everyone knew it had occurred.  One of Flame’s squad, bunked nearest the captain’s quarters, had even reported the arguing had gone until almost dawn.  Everyone off-duty was in the mess, quietly speaking and waiting, wondering what would happen.

Punch heard a few whispers and murmurs as he picked up a tray and made his way to the table where Sergeant Tuur and the squad sat.

“...demote Heft?”

"...you have to think of your vode first.”

“... all brothers.”

“Art will transfer…”

“...nothing more will be said.”

Card shifted to make room for him and Punch glanced around at the squad.  They were quietly waiting for the decision of what would happen.  Punch and Card had already spoken to Sergeant Tuur about taking Art into their squad if he wanted to transfer out of Heft’s and the others had agreed. 

Across the room at the table with Art were the men of Heft’s squad, a silent huddled declaration that they wouldn’t have left him behind; that they considered the captain wrong for calling Sergeant Heft back.  Tap, out of bacta only that morning, sat next to Art.  By the way he sat next to Art, Punch wondered if the scout would also ask for a transfer.  Glancing at their faces; Clever staring into his untouched mug, a bewildered Seed nervously stirring his cereal, and Threthree unknowingly salting his caf, Punch wondered if Sergeant Heft would even have a squad.  It was so obvious that each of them wondered if they would have been left behind.

Most of the squads had not touched their breakfast any more than a nervous, preparatory stir before realizing they had no appetite as they waited in uncertainty.

The sergeant’s actions that day at the flood river weren’t totally clear.  He’d been turning back, preparing to go to Art’s aid when Captain Top had yelled that order.  Had the captain yelled it because he knew the Jedi general would save Art?  General Nyrm had been deeply surrounded by the droids and the majority opinion was that the captain couldn’t be sure of the general rescuing Art.  Did Heft pause because it had been a command from his superior officer?  Or did Heft pause to follow that order and turn away from Art?  Then General Nyrm had Force-pushed him back and grabbed Art from that frictionless mud, and no one had to consider it anymore.

Except Heft’s squad had to consider it. 

They had to consider that Sergeant Heft had been prepared to turn his back on Art and walk away.  They had to consider that the captain considered them more ‘expendable’ than other troopers, more expendable than the captain’s vode.  Maybe there was a rank order of expendability with the shinies at the bottom, next the troopers then the medics and most precious of all, the captain’s vode.  It sat wrong with Punch and the squad, including Tuur which was why they had decided to offer to take Art if it came to that.  Punch suspected the captain’s actions sat wrong with all the troopers and Art would have his choice of the other squads if he wanted to transfer. 

Heft had probably had a plan.  Very likely the same belaying line trick Punch had thought of but from the river. He would have grabbed Art, both men slipping in the frictionless mud, Heft firing into the solidness of a tree to let the others fish them out.  The captain had yelled out, ‘Heft, no!”  He had used command voice and it had most definitely been an order to stay.  Why?  Because they’d come out of Kamino together and Heft was more important than the other troopers?  Sergeant Heft has paused.  Was it nothing more than the ingrained training to follow orders or were there other, darker thought in his mind? 

Punch shook his head slightly.  A captain couldn’t be more concerned about a single trooper than his company.  On some level, Punch knew it was true.  He valued Sketch more than this entire company.  But it couldn’t be that way in battle; it couldn’t be that way for the person commanding the forces.  In battle there was the objective and duty was to achieve that objective at all costs; not at all costs except the death of one brother.

The door slide back and Sergeant Heft entered the mess.  He seemed unsurprised by the presence of so many troopers and the way their faces snapped to him as he walked towards his squad.  His face was taut and hard, there were dark circles under his eyes and his clothing hadn’t been changed from yesterday.  His jaw was clenched tightly, pugnaciously shut.  He didn’t even look around the mess, he knew where his squad was and strode to their table.

The entire mess stilled, silent as they waited for what Sergeant Heft would say.

Sergeant Heft stood in front of his squad at parade rest, his full attention directed to Art.  Slowly, Art lowered the spoon and placed his hands flat on the table then he stood, his face pale, emphasizing a dark bruise on his cheek, as if waiting for a reprimand.

“I will never leave you behind, Art.”  Heft’s voice rang clearly throughout the mess.  “No matter the order, I will not leave any of my squad behind.” 

Art must have been holding his breath.  His exhale of relief was as audible to Punch as Heft’s declaration.  “Yes, sir.”  He glanced around at the squad.  “Care to breakfast with us, sergeant?”

Sergeant Heft usually ate with Captain Top and Lieutenant Cover.  He gave a small smile and nodded.  “I’d be honored.”

As his squad made room for Sergeant Heft at the table next to Art, a couple of troopers found their lost appetites.  After a few moments, the mess was at its regular cacophony of voices ringing out, laughter, and shouts from the troopers. 

Watching him, Punch wondered what the cost would be to Sergeant Heft for defying his captain-vod.  He thought he knew; Heft wouldn’t be the only trooper separated from his brothers-by-choice.

Punch was separated from Sketch by distance, Heft was separated from Top and Cover by decision.


	11. No Regrets

There was no one else currently in the barracks; the others sparring in the gym but Punch had wanted to compare the scores of the troopers.  Resh was coming along nicely; his new name had given him a much-needed confidence.  Thirty-one had also improved substantially and was considered a good, seasoned trooper.  There was some discussion of him transferring to Flame’s squad of near-rookies though Punch thought Card might be a better addition as a temporary second for Flame.  However, he wanted to talk with Sergeant Tuur about the possibilities of what might happen now that Sergeant Heft had made it clear to Captain Top that his troopers came first. 

Tenaut had come in from over-duty watching over the bacta tanks, grabbed his towel and showered then returned to the barracks for sleep. 

Wistfully, Punch watched Tenaut recite remembrance for his fallen vode as he did last thing every night.

“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.”  Tenaut spoke with quiet reverence touched with joy.  Punch could see that when he spoke, he was actually talking to his brothers - perhaps not in the flesh - but the words were to his brothers.  Again, he watched Tenaut’s lips, moving in memory.

He was almost as fast as you, Runner.  Tenaut paused, as if listening to Runner say something.  Shuk, I’m glad to say I have no more names to add today.  Tenaut nodded to unspoken words.  As I promised, Shuk.

Runner and Shuk must have been close vode; Tenaut spoke with them every day and usually several sentences in some imaginary conversation and always ending with that unknown promise to Shuk.

Punch found it relaxing to watch Tenaut remember his fallen brothers; there was a calm to it that he had never imagined might be found in battlefield conditions.  Yet, Tenaut had recited remembrance in the cave as the fires shrank into orange glow covered by white ash and calm had prevailed in that cavern overhang.

This time, Tenaut didn’t immediately curl into the pillow and blanket to fall asleep.  Instead, he came over to Punch, sitting cross-legged on his bunk.

“Is it time, Punch,” he asked softly, “that you’d like to tell me about your first squad.”

“There isn’t much to tell.”  Punch shook his head.  “We lost Zev before our first battle; he was snipered as we landed.  The rest,” he paused, his lips open in a wordless breath, then shrugged.  “They were all alive when I was reassigned to the 224.”

Tenaut tilted his head to one side.  “There’s more to your story than that, Punch.”

“I had a vod, a brother-by-choice.  Sketch, CT-93-0287, and I think he was better than Art in his talent.  Command separated us.”  Punch licked his lower lip and set aside the squad statistics.  “I don’t think anyone told them we were brothers.  I certainly didn’t.  I was angry at Sketch and, maybe I thought we’d have some time together after the inquiry.  But we didn’t, we were all shipped out immediately.”

“Inquiry?”

Punch shook his head with a shrug of his shoulders.  “It’s all classified but in the end, the squad was separated because we couldn’t work together.”

“Kamino tests for that before sending out a squad.”

“Before, yeah, we were good.  Me and Sketch were both good at leading.”  He chuckled but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes.  “It was playful competition between us who was the squad’s best.  Jester was great at coming up with new ideas and angles from previous training, at keeping the squad mentally prepared for unexpected changes.  Chopper was solid, quietly battle-brilliant.  He’d been at Geonosis and was incorporated into the squad after medical signed off on him.  Zev was our best slicer and mechanical tech; could made a deece sit up and beg to be fired - center-target every time.  Gus followed; understanding not just the orders but where they fit in the battle plan, the entire thing fitting seamlessly together.  He was able to extrapolate what end result and intermediate steps command wanted from a single order.” 

Punch paused, biting his lip, seeing in his memory the squad as they’d been before Christophsis and Sergeant Slick.  The eager anticipation, the desire to be the best squad, the hopes and fire of fulfilling one’s destiny.

“Before?”  Tenaut’s question was quietly calm with almost no inquisitive tones and Punch knew it was some medical technique for traumatic debrief.  He supposed what had happened was traumatic.  It had been for the others, particularly Gus and Chopper, but he thought himself relatively untouched by Sergeant Slick’s maliciousness. 

That had been proven wrong.  He thought of Slick almost as much as Sketch; making sure he wasn’t doing what Slick might have ordered or condoned.

“Afterwards, we were a hateful, pitiful, useless mess of antagonistic troopers that stuttered, collected battlefield artifacts, and wouldn’t admit to abuse.  I still don’t understand how or why because I had my brains so far up my shebs I didn’t even notice what was happening.”

Punch bowed his head in shame.  “Chopper once said we had the potential to be the best squad in the GAR and now, I think he was right but afterwards we were probably the worst with no one else in contention for last place.”

“Who was the sergeant? You or Sketch?”  Again, Tenaut’s voice was soft with no emotional overtones, eliciting information as medicinal as puncturing a wound to let the infection drain.

“Neither.  We were given to a sergeant who had lost his Kamino squad and everything about him is classified as well.”

Tenaut tilted his head, his eyes sweeping up and down Punch’s body.  “Were you abused, Punch?”

Punch supposed he expected that question nor did he react with the violence he had shown when Commander Cody had asked.  Instead, he sighed.  He’d been angrily emotional then, hurt by what he perceived as Sketch’s betrayal in drawing that obscenity even though he knew his vod was trying to protect him.

“Not sexually, Tenaut, though at least one other in the squad was, but I feel abused.  I feel dirty and covered in some invisible slime that no one else can see.  I feel like once it’s gone, everyone will see me as deficient or defective in some way.”  Punched shifted, stood and paced the small area in front of his bunk, his arms moving in agitation.  “I feel like I’ve failed my vod.  Sketch and I should have caught what was happening to the squad.  We should have prevented it.” 

Punch paused, looking into Tenaut’s face for any emotion but saw only open sympathy.  “I feel like if I ever see Gus or Chopper or Jester again, they’ll spit in my face.  And that’s if they don’t take their blaster to me.  I feel like Sketch, my own vod, would do so as well.”  Punch swallowed, staring down at the dark coverlet of the bunk, his forehead on the bar of the upper rack.  “There’s some part of me that knows I deserve it.”

“Do you really deserve derision, Punch?”  Again Tenaut asked with that therapeutic tone in his voice.

Punch bowed his head, his jaws tightening.  “For what I did, possibly not.  For what I didn’t do, yes.”

Tenaut nodded sadly.  “Is that why you’re so careful to watch over your vode now?”

Punch chewed at his lower lip, sucking it in as he thought.  “Yes and no. I watch over them because we’re brothers, because we have responsibility for each other.  I’ve learned that.  But I do so with double-checks because I’ve seen this responsibility neglected.”

He turned, sitting next to Tenaut on the bunk.  For a while there was only silence.  “Captain Top was wrong to call back Heft but I understand why he did, Tenaut.  Does that mean that if I’m with Sketch, I’ll neglect the troopers in favor of my own vod?  How do you treat the troopers, Tenaut?  How do you ignore the fact that this is one of your squad?”

“I don’t treat troopers, Punch,” answer Tenaut as if he’d been expecting the question.  “I treat wounds.  If I had to treat troopers, I’d be frozen.”  He paused, looking down at his hands with a sad smile.  “It’s how I lost Shuk.  He’d been caught in crossfire of so much shrapnel that his armor could have been used as a sieve.  There were three other troopers caught in the same explosive crossfire.  I looked at the wounds and saw I could save no more than three of them.  At best, or I could treat the most wounded and save only one.  And that was not certain.  It was only later, in medical, that I realized it was Shuk, my own vod, that I could have saved rather than Tuur, Heft, and Tap.”

Punch saw tears in Tenaut’s eyes and put his hand on the medic’s shoulder. 

“I miss him, Punch.  I miss Shuk so ferociously that some days I consider walking point with my eyes closed.” 

Both Punch and Tenaut were still in that confession then Tenaut continued speaking.  “Except, he’d be ashamed of me for taking my skills away from our other vode.  I miss him, but I don’t regret what I did that day.  I don’t think he would regret it either.”


	12. Mimban Storms

“Hey, Punch.”  

Punch’s head jerked in the direction of Art’s voice who was gesturing his arm for Punch to come to the table.  

“I’ve heard that you’re one of the few clones who hasn’t seen the holo of me in the riverbed.”

“A few of us didn’t think it was right,” Punch replied as he sat at the table. “You could have died.”

Art reached out and lightly touched the bacta patch on Punch’s upper arm, a remnant of that morning’s skirmish.  “Any of us could die at any time.  We need to be able to laugh before we die.”  He grinned and raised one tattooed eyebrow as he waved the holodisk in front of Punch.  “And, I’ve been told it’s hilarious.”

It was.

Punch didn’t know where Garl had gotten the music; instrumental and full of crescendos with a crushing sound for each time some part of Art’s body hit the slick mud of the riverbed, but he understood why it was funny - Art had survived.  If Art had died, drowned in the river or blasted by the clankers, Garl wouldn’t have made the holo and set it to music.  It was funny _because_ Art was alive and a lot of the humor was because they had all survived.  It reminded them of returning to base in the rain, covered with mud, laughing with shereshoy, glad to be alive.  It reminded them of touching the wounded, taking their hands in a brothers’ clasp then releasing the grip as they were moved to medical and the bacta tanks, knowing they’d be back in the mess in a day or so.

Punch smiled then guffawed as the hologram Art slipped, landing bucket face-forward in the black sludge.  “Did that hurt, Art?”

Art chuckled and reached his fingers to the fading yellow mark on his cheek. “Yeah, I thought I’d busted a cheekbone but it just bruised the face.”

They were laughing together and watching the holovid a second time when Captain Top came into the mess followed by Lieutenant Cover.  Punch and Art snapped to attention.

“At ease,” nodded Captain Top as he observed the hologram Art slip in the mud, his deece spinning out of view.  There was an odd, sad look on his face as he reached to turn it off.

“We’re getting another group of Kamino rookies,” he said.  “As well as another company joining us.”  He grimaced.  “At least, I think that’s what the message was.  Punch, I’d like you to come with us when we greet them.  Not just to calibrate the new troopers’ helmets but I’d like you to run a comparison diagnostic tests with the pilot’s and LAAT’s transmissions.”  

“Yes, sir,” Punch moved beside Cover, both men a step behind Captain Top as he turned back toward the door.

The captain shook his head.  “Transmissions just keep getting worse.  It sounded like a broad range receiver catching five or six transmissions.  If one of the is the CIS encampment, I’d like to know what they are saying.”  He shook his head.  “But it doesn’t sound like that, merely random transmissions.  Just noise.”

“Will do, Captain,” replied Punch, his own expression concerned as he thought of some possible diagnostics to run.

It was raining steadily but, as usual, Captain Top took off his helmet to greet his new troopers.  Punch and the lieutenant followed his example.  As they waited at the landing ramp, Captain Top turned to Punch.  “I won’t transfer you, Punch.  Transfers don’t look good on a trooper’s record and, in retrospect, both you and Sergeant Heft were right, but I…”  Captain Top’s lips were open as if he was going to finish the sentence, but he was silent too long and the roar of the incoming LAAT drowned out whatever he might have said and he only shook his head.  Cover put his hand briefly on Top’s shoulder.

It seemed like there’d be a push against the Separatist forces soon; with these Kamino rookies they were now a full company.  This time there was another captain, his armor painted with red predator figures.  There were four extra squads under his command.  None of them had shiny armor, they were all dinged and scraped and touched with red.

“Captain Sharp; 44th Special Ops.  Devil Dogs Division.”  He snapped out to Top then glanced at Punch and Cover in curiousity.  “Which is your second, Captain Top?”

Top smiled as he clasped the captain’s arm.  “Lieutenent Cover,” he turned his head towards his vod, “is my second.  Punch is Sergeant Tuur’s second but my best electronics specialist.  We’re having a kriff-load of trouble with transmissions here on Mimban and I want him to cross-check the pilot’s and LAAT’s transmissions.”  He gestured toward the LAAT and Punch trotted inside to begin the diagnostics.  By the time he had downloaded the pilot’s transmissions to Mimban, another clone, his armor tipped in red, had joined him.  

“Fixer,” he said as he moved toward the LAAT’s transmission memory and began opening the transmissions panel.  “Captain Sharp sent me.  Apparently, we’re the best slicers in our companies.”

“Always room for another slicer on this planet.  The humidity plays havoc with everything.”  Punch  handed the helmet back to the pilot and moved to where the new clonetrooper was reaching into the compartment, he pulled the hardwire connection and handed to Punch to attach to his helmet. There was the small whir of transmission download and Punch handed Fixer the connection who tucked it back into the alcove and secured the panel.  Punch pulled on his helmet and turned back to the pilot with a nod.

“Thank you.  I know you’d be welcome in the mess if you would like a break.”

The pilot laughed and shook his head.  “Thanks, but no.  I want to get my LAAT out of here before the bad weather begins.”

Fixer stared at the pilot for a moment.  “That wasn’t bad weather on the landing?  I thought I was going to loose my last four meals.”

“Just a little humidity,” answered Punch as the pilot laughed, his fingers flicking switches, prepping the engines for departure.

In the mess, Punch showed Fixer how to make minor adjustments for the Mimban weather.  “I usually tell the troopers what to check and wait to see how their helmets react before I do anything major.”

“Don’t they all react the same to the same conditions?”  Fixer looked at Punch in surprise.

“No.  Some have periods of dead silence while others have static.  Two or three have randomly flickering screens and a few have double or triple transmissions.  There’s no such thing as private channel.  Everything said is heard by at least three troopers.  There were some arguments before we realized that.”

“Maybe the CIS,” began Fixer, his own fingers adjusting a trooper’s helmet.

Punch shook his head.  “We’ve run several tests, but apparently they can’t hear our transmissions.  Sometimes we run our attacks comm silence.”  He gestured to his bandaged arm.  “We did this morning but there was no difference in the droid attack and our comm center and planning room remain shielded. I check every three days.”

His chron began blinking and Punch stood with a smile.  “If you don’t mind continuing, I’m going to medical.  My sergeant will be coming out of bacta and I’d like to be there with the rest of the squad.”

“Go,” waved Fixer as he peered into another helmet.  “I’ve got this covered.”

As Punch strode into the medical unit, he paused, taking in the quiet respect and anticipation so unique to medical.  The squad was there, waiting for Tuur.  Tenaut was quietly conferring with chief medic Bone; Coil at his side carefully listening and observing in his new position of squad medic’s assistant.  Card was standing at parade rest in the second’s place but, as Punch strode up, took several steps back to the bench where Tack, ‘31, Resh and the two no-longer-shinies waited.

“Sergeant Tuur,” began Punch as he stood in parade rest.  The sergeant was awake and attentive, only a rash-like red mark on his chest showing where he’d been blasted by a B1 earlier that morning.  “New Kamino rookies have arrived to bring the company to full strength.  Four squads of another company, 44th Special Ops lead by Captain Sharp also arrived.  It looks like they’re demolitions.”  Punch heard the murmurs of the squad behind him as they considered this piece of information.  “Perhaps we’ll finally be making an attack on the CIS encampment.  There will be a sergeants’ session with both captains later this evening.”  Punch grinned at Tuur.  “Just enough time for you to get cleaned and fed.”  Punch saw the smile lines flex around Tuur’s eyes and continued briefing him until the bacta tank emptied and Sergeant Tuur’s squad helped the sergeant from the tank and into his gear. **  
**


	13. Mimban Storms

In the medical unit, Tuur had put on his armor - a new breastplate was the only replacement needed - then he accompanied his troopers to the mess.  Punch finished the briefing for the sergeant he’d begun in medical as the squad sat at the table, a few troopers picking a small plate or a few fruit to keep the sergeant company as he ate.  When Punch finished the briefing, Tuur nodded and glanced around the table.  Immediately, the troopers began their own narratives and questions, comments and observations, seeking answers and clarifications in rank order; Tenaut then Card and ending with the brief ‘reporting for duty, sir’ from the three rookies just in.  At almost the same moment that Sergeant Tuur took his last bite, his and Punch’s chrons blinked.

“Time for the meeting with the captains, Sergeant.  I’ve reserved one of the gym rooms for sparring and we’ll be there.”

“No,” Tuur said as he stood.  “I think you’re right and we’re going to move against the CIS camp.  I’d like the squad to be well-rested in case we leave first thing early.”  He grinned.  “No more than three sets sparring simply to keep you in fighting trim, then hot showers and sleep.”  Tuur turned his face to the new clones.  “Rookies, you listen to the others, they’re all good, battle-experienced vode.”

“Yes sir,” smiled Punch echoed by the new troopers.

It was late when Sergeant Tuur returned to the barracks. Although the others were asleep, even Tenaut with a faint smile on his lips from speaking to dead Shuk and Runner,  Punch was waiting in the sergeant’s office finalizing the report of that morning’s skirmish on the sergeant’s datapad for his verification.  

Tuur looked at Punch, seated in the chair at the sergeant’s desk.  “I thought I said light sparring, showers and sleep, Punch.”  But he smiled tiredly.

“Just in case  you needed me,” replied Punch as he stood and moved to assist the sergeant with removing his armor.   Tuur made a pained face and gave a soft, throaty groan  as Punch removed the back plate.  His muscles tightened in small cramps.

“Do you need anodyne, sir?  Should I wake Tenaut?”

“No, my muscles are just stiff from the bacta tank then so long in the meeting.”  He gave a short laugh.  “My shoulders wish I had done that light sparring and sent you to the meeting.”

“Nothing important, then?”  

Tuur sighed.  “Important but not unexpected.  As you thought, we are going to move against the CIS forces.  First thing early,” he looked out toward the others and smiled.  “Captain Sharp and his four squads will go forward to set up demolitions.  We’ll be going as their guides.  The rest will follow us and, about half a day later, we go on the offensive.”

**********

It was still dark and, as usual, raining when they went to the mess for breakfast.  Most of the squad were eating light and keeping a few, portable tidbits for later.  Punch noted the new rookies were following their lead and nodded.  It wouldn’t take them long at all to be good, battle-experienced troopers that any captain would be proud to have.

Three of Captain Sharp’s squads were in the mess though the captain and his main squad hadn’t yet made their appearance.  Thirty-one glanced around, first at the squads, then at the mess chonometer.  He glanced down then up at Tenaut with a hopeful smile.

“Tenaut,” his voice was hesitant.  “Do you have any more stories of the Unchanged King?  Maybe a short one the general told you before I got to Mimban?”

Tenaut ran his fingers slowly over the medic’s icon of his helmet and chewed at his lower lip for a moment then lifted his head and grinned at the troopers.

“I have one I think you’ll like.”

Sergeant Tuur smiled back; there wasn’t any story the troopers didn’t like.  The more experienced troopers leaned forward, their attention on Tenaut as he began speaking while the rookies looked confused then settled in to listen.

“When General Nyrm came to Mimban, he told us the story of when the Unchanged King rode his kingdom.  He’d been made king and sanctified and had all the proper ceremonies performed.  Every trooper had vowed their loyalty to…”

There was a rude snort from one of the other squads.  “Civilian stories,” muttered one of the clones even as the door opened for Captain Sharp and his remaining squad.  Resh had pushed himself belligerently to his feet.

“They are the history of a warrior,” he said in a hard voice.  “And I’ll call one-on-one for his sake.”

Whatever the other trooper was about to say was lost in the loud crack of a gauntlet hitting his chestplate and the captain’s stern voice.

“When did any civilian give you something to share with your brothers, Sten? What has anyone given you that you will keep for the rest of your life?”  The trooper dropped his head in shame.

“I apologize for my rudeness.”  Sten shrugged.  “Battle nerves.”

Punch didn’t believe that, the trooper was experienced and rock solid but it was a good excuse to allow both he and Resh to back down.

“Please continue, medic.  It sounds interesting.” Captain Sharp made a nod towards the caf and breakfast as he sat at the nearest table to Sergeant Tuur’s squad.  The last squad moved quickly and quietly to gather breakfast, someone setting a caf cup in front of the captain along with a plate of meat strips.

Tenaut nodded and, nervously rubbing the medic’s insignia of the helmet at his lap, continued.  

“The Unchanged King had been verified and sanctified, with all the proper ceremonies performed.  He had proven himself in battle and he had both Nyrm and his wounded brother, Resh, as his advisors.  Every trooper had vowed their loyalty to him.  With the strength of a united force came security and that began to weave peace in his kingdom.  Nearby kingdoms began making overtures of trade and negotiation.  Trade flourishes in peace.”

Tenaut licked his lips and continued in a quieter voice.  “Some of these negotiations included offers of marriage to bind the peace together.  However, remember the Unchanged King was young and he wasn’t really interested or ready to marry, particularly choosing only one among so many females he had never met.”

“Couldn’t he have them all?  To make peace among all the kingdoms?” That was Coil.

“Would that be like a vow of brothers?”  The question came from one of Sharp’s troopers.  “Marrying the women and having their families become his vode?”

Tenaut nodded.  “They were monogamists, Coil, permitting only a single woman and a single man to make the marriage proper.”  He nodded to Sharp’s trooper.  “But you are correct, the marriage would bind their families as one; making the Unchanged King brother with any of his wife’s siblings and strengthening the alliance of peace between them.”  He turned back to the table.  “However, he was young and not ready for those intimacies.  So Nyrm and Resh suggested he explore his kingdom.  In battle a king must know his land, every shrub and every stone, every hill and every hollow, every mountain and every river.  He must know his people; his sergeants and his troopers, his cooks and his farmers, his shepherds and his hunters.”

Noting the confused looks on some of the faces, Sergeant Tuur explained.  “We are troopers that are constantly moving to planetary battlefields.  We need to know our commands and our equipment.  We trust our brothers.  The Unchanged King led an army to protect his land.  He needed to trust the people who lived there and he needed to knew the territory.”

Tenaut nodded then continued speaking after a nod from Tuur.  “The Unchanged King decided to explore his kingdom by himself accompanied only by Jedi Knight Nyrm leaving Resh to carry on with the day to day guidance of the kingdom.  He didn’t take anything suggestive of a king - no army or gilded armor, no military escort.  He wore his oldest, favorite vambraces and a heavy shirt of interlocking metal rings and rode his favorite mount; what General Nyrm called an ugly, cantankerous beast with the endurance to run forever.”

Captain Sharp finished his caf and tapped his chron, everyone pulling on their helmet and their gear.  Tenaut fell silent as he and Coil loaded the medical packs.  Fixer, from one of Sharp’s squads, moved toward Punch, shaking his head.  

“I understand now what you mean by Mimban messes up the electronics.  We’ve had flickers, statics, delayed transmissions…”  Fixer shook his head.  “Every problem I could think of has occurred since our landing as well as a few new ones.  I’ve told Captain Sharp and the troopers to have only me or you work on them.”

“That would be best,” nodded Punch.  “And Sergeant Tuur agrees to loan me out as necessary for electronics.  The helmets don’t usually change once we’ve been out on mission for several hours.  Usually.”

The squads moved outside the perimeter of the camp.  Although by their chrons it was nearly sunrise, the sky was dark grey lit by lightning flashes and the reflections in the water.  By experience, Punch knew it would lighten up to light grey and still be raining when they returned from the attack, probably tomorrow.  He adjusted his filters for best visibility as they moved into the ravine where rain would be lighter and sent the settings through the squad, allowing Sergeant Tuur to present it to Captain Sharp for his troopers.

“Be aware of snakes,” said Tuur, open channel to everyone. “We’ll take a rest in an overhang about half-way there.”

Then they were moving, into one of the ravines where there was less rain and they could move slightly quicker.  Captain Sharp and Sergeant Tuur were in the lead setting a good, quick pace but not an exhausting one.  Punch and most of Tuur’s squad was in the primary position while Captain Sharp’s squads trailed behind them with Resh, Card, and one of the new shinies bringing up the rear.

Quickly they found a good pace then Captain Sharp spoke.  “Continue the tale as we travel, medic.  I understand it’s quite a distance and anything to alleviate the boredom would be welcome.”

Tenaut nodded, continuing the story even as the banter in the helmets softened and died as the troopers listened with awe to the tale of another trooper, a born-human soldier, on a far-away world. **  
**


	14. An Error of Nothing

The haze and drizzle continued as they moved through the gully and toward the dry overhang on the way to the droid encampment. One of Sharp’s men, Blunt, would have found a patch of the frictionless mud with his boot, but Card’s watchful eyes saw it first.

“Hold on, vod,” he exclaimed as he halted the trooper with a touch on the shoulder. Card pulled off his gauntlet, bent and barely touched the shimmering black mud with a fingertip then held out his darkened fingertips for inspection by Sharp’s troopers.

“Don’t touch it with gauntlets,” Sergeant Tuur warned as he scanned the gully shadowed with mossy, green overgrowth, one of the squad’s shinies at his side. “Unless you want to drop everything you handle.”

Sharp touched his fingers to Card’s then nodded as he made sure his troopers were aware of the hazard. Punch thought his face had tightened in amazement at the slippery feel of the element in its raw form.

They made the overhang just as the skies opened up with what Punch now considered a proper Mimban rain. Multiple streaks of lightning crackled in the sky, lighting it with electricity and the smell of ozone. The ground itself seemed to tremble with the ferocity of thunder that didn’t cease. Wind blew the rain sideways and the squads had moved deeper inward towards the sheltered part of the overhand, pulling off their helmets and pulling out ration bars and canteens.

“Wow,” exclaimed Fixer as he sat next to Punch staring out at the water falling from the sky. “Do not tell me that this is not bad weather. I never saw anything like this, not even on Kamino.”

Punch chuckled. “Yes, Fixer, it’s bad weather but not the worst I’ve seen here. It’s pretty standard for Mimban. We’ll be pulling on our buckets and marching out there as soon as Tuur and Sharp give the orders.”

“At least the droids are susceptible to all this as well.” Fixer waved his hand in the general direction of the water. He gave a laugh. “I don’t suppose we can lure them out and have them rust on the spot? Maybe throw down some of that slippery mud and see them all dance like that trooper did in that hologram?”

Punch laughed at the thought of all those droids slipping and falling in the mud. “That’d be a sight to see; couple thousand droids crashing and slamming into each other.”

Fixer stiffened and gazed at Punch with an astonished look on his face. “Couple thousand? Captain Sharp said a couple hundred.”

Punch shook his head as a feeling of dread started spinning in his stomach. “No. We’ve done the recon. Approximately two thousand B1s and one thousand SBDs. A few other types as well; maybe ten droidekas, a couple spider droids, and a TK as commander.” He clenched one hand into a fist. “I sent the message myself, then sent it again on a different channel a day later. A full and complete reconnaissance report according to standards and word count confirmed. Perimeter watches, helmet scans, everything.”

Fixer stood and stared out the overhang. “Electronics must be worse than you know, Punch,” he said softly. “Devil Dogs got only the briefest report that I can quote from memory; Mimban, demolitions needed, several hundred at encampment. I need to report this to the Captain.”

Punch stood as well, pulling on his bucket. “Tuur and I need to be there to confirm any information Sharp needs. Wasn’t this discussed at the meeting last night? Specifics?”

“I don’t know,” Fixer spoke as he moved toward where Captain Sharp was sitting with Sergeant Tuur.

\----------

Captain Sharp gave a bark of laughter at Punch’s question then shook his head. “No. And, I don’t know why since standard procedures have us confirm all the information.”

Sten, Sharp’s second in command, shrugged. “It was late and first squad’s helmets had just started acting up again. Yours more than most. It’s just a few extra droids for the Devil Dogs,” he glanced around, “and company to chew up and spit out.” He laughed then glanced at where the rest of Tuur’s squad was waiting respectfully beside Tenaut and Card, all troopers listening to the exchange. “I’ll take on an extra twenty, captain.”

“Me too, sir” said Card, distinctly out of order but not out of the conversation. “I’ll take on an extra twenty.”

Sharp nodded, the curl of a slight smile at his lips. Punch knew that expression, pride in his brothers, pride in his troopers. Tuur often had that expression when talking about the squad. Pride and the concern of losing them in battle.

“If we all take an extra twenty, then there’s no problem.” Fixer’s voice was angrily scornful but his captain only nodded with the dark air of sadness and experience.

“It’s all we can do, Fixer. Every trooper gets to take on an extra twenty droids.” There was agreement from everyone; murmurs of ‘I’ll take on twenty’ and ‘as you command, captain’.

Resh glared at Sten, still angry at his words from breakfast. “I’ll take on a spider-droid. That should count for twenty.”

Sten’s eyes glittered at the challenge. “You’re on.”

Immediately there was the sound of brothers betting and trying to calculate the worth of a spider droid against the more numerous B1s and SBDs. Punch turned and went back towards the entrance of the overhang. The rain seemed to be slacking off but the wind was as vicious as ever, screaming as if in anger.

Captain Sharp and Sergeant Tuur came to stand beside him. “Few more minutes, Punch,” said Tuur, “then we leave. If you want a hot ration, you’d better get it now.” He nodded his head where Thirty-one and one of the shinies were extinguishing the fire they’d quickly built, a few remaining packets of snack rations sitting on a warmed boulder.

“I’m thinking of something, Sergeant,” Punch glanced back into the overhang where Tuur’s squad and Captain Sharp’s larger force were preparing to move on toward the CSI encampment.

“Tell us.” Then the sergeant turned toward Sharp. “Punch is my second, captain, and besides being brilliant with electronics often comes up with excellent ideas.”

“Fixer suggested it first, Captain,” said Punch as he stared outward into the greyness. “Throwing down some of the frictionless mud and watching the droids slip and fall.”

Sharp chuckled and Punch knew he, also, had seen the hologram of Art set to the music.

“Is there a way to fill up the explosions with the mud? Maybe rain it down on them.” Punch paused at Sharp’s frown then continued. “We’re vastly outnumbered, sir, and I, for one, don’t expect to survive those kinds of odds unless we do something unexpected.”

“We’d be affected just as badly as the droids, Punch.” Sharp's eyes narrowed. “Though, if we attacked the perimeter with a heavy concentration of blaster fire, they may pull in andgroup together. If they do, we could send a few explosive rounds into the group, spilling out this mud along with explosive shrapnel.”

Tuur nodded. “We could remain outside of the perimeter and most of the slickness, sir. If we circle around the camp, coming in from the west, there’s more cover. Trees, boulders, heavy plant-life.”

Nodding, Captain Sharp turned to the men in the overhang. “At ease, gentlemen. You’ve got another twenty before we depart. Blunt, you and Tuur’s trooper go back to that place where you almost stepped in the mud."  

Blunt glanced at Card and both troopers pulled on their helmets as they loped from the overhang and down the gully path. 

"Sten," ordered Sharp.  "I want you to oversee the conversion of a few explosives for carrying a load of that muck.” He turned toward Tuur. “And, we need to let Top know of the change in plans.”


	15. Medic!

 

With Sergeant Tuur and Coil in the foliage covering them, their blaster bolts winging over their shoulders, the squad attacked as Captains Sharp and Top gave the orders to advance.

Punch pushed himself, one-handed, over the boulder while firing into the mass of B1s converging on the squad.  His foot slipped slightly as he landed on the ground, but it was only wet stones and rain-soaked mud and he caught himself from going down to his knees.

The shiny next to him wasn’t as lucky, sliding on the slick vegetation to land on his shebs but still firing his blaster into the droids advancing their way.

Punch spared a quick glance at the center of the encampment where most of the droids were either component parts or doing a dance as entertaining as Art’s holograph.

“I hope someone’s getting that on holo,” yelled Art as he and Sergeant Heft moved in at an angle towards several SBDs that had pinned down one of Captain Sharp’s squad in heavy fire.

“I set up a passive viewer,” yelled Garl from somewhere beyond Punch’s view and across the battlefield with Captain Top.

“Medic!  Blast is down,” came the near-panicked voice of Clever.  “Forty-six, get the sergeant behind us, I’ve got you covered.”

“On it,” called Bone, the 224th's chief medic.  “Tal, go to quadrant 3.  They’re taking heavy fire there and I expect…”

“Medic!” came the call from the direction Tal was already running towards, his movement covered by the fire of several troopers from different squads, Captain Sharp’s as well as Top’s.

Card, slightly ahead of Thirty-one and another of the squad’s shinies, was next over their cover of mossy boulders.  He took a moment to grab the shiny and give him a quick haul up.  “Move it, muddy,” he yelled then pushed forward with Punch, the off-balance shiny following.

As Captain Sharp had planned, the tinnies had clustered together as GAR forces hit the perimeter and Sten’s guidance had sent three of the mud-filled explosives directly in their center.  Those droids in the center were of no further concern, now merely a passel of droid parts, bent and dented.  The frictionless mud, however, had aerosoled into particles sprayed outward by the explosion and covered most of the droids in the dense cluster.  No one knew how far the aerosol had spread.  Not yet, anyway.  Though Sten had estimated five hundred meters around the epicenter should be as far as the mud would fall.

“Medic!” It was another shout for help.  This time from one of Captain Sharp’s troopers.  

“With you,” came Tenaut’s voice, soothing in its experience, as he quickly moved to where a downed clone lay in the cushioning of greenery soaked into softness, the red of his armor blending with the red of his blood.  But he still had his deece in his hand and his legs were moving, trying to get some friction to stand.

Resh was next over the boulders and quickly moving with determination towards the end of a large swarm of B1s where a spider droid was firing anti-personnel rounds on Captain Top and the remainder of the attacking mudjumpers in quadrant 3.

A quick glance to Captain Sharp’s primary squad, on their right, showed that Sten also was making for one of the DS spider droids.

"Resh, Sten," called out Sergeant Tuur, "remember that new directive; spiders self-destruct in a final attack."

Punch veered to follow Resh.  He’d need help with the squads of B1s but Punch would leave the spider to him alone.  One of the squad’s new shinies veered with him.

“The spider is his, rookie.  We merely keep the B1s occupied.”

“Understood, Sergeant’s Second.”

“Deadeye,” yelled Captain Sharp through open communications.  “Take down those supers.  Jark, with him.”

So, Captain Sharp was letting Sten take on the spider himself in the competition between the two troopers.  

“On it, sir.” Two troopers peeled off towards a group of SBDs intent on pinning down Sergeant Flame’s squad.

There were other voices, too, in Punch’s helmet; the cries of troopers being wounded or dying.  Orders coming from Captain Top in the northeast quadrant 3 and Captain Sharp in the west as his wedge cut off the line of tinnies for the mudjumpers to circle and destroy.  Punch could hear the sergeants directing their squads and the heavy breathing of their exertions.

Sharp’s voice called over the open channels.  “Top, can you drawn them out in a line?”

“Will do, Sharp.  Half a k?”

“Perfect,” Sharp replied, spinning away from Tuur’s squad towards quadrant 3 with the remainder of his troopers to cut off what would soon be a thin line of Seppie forces.

Too often it was too much for Punch to open all his channels, but today, as overmatched as they so obviously were, he wanted to hear everything.  Everything as it happened.  Every trooper wounded or down, every cry of loss or momentary triumph.  He wanted to hear it all, wanted to be with all of his vode until the moment when it would be his voice crying out in shocked outrage at being wounded then gasping softly to realize it was a death wound.  He wanted to be able to hear Tenaut comfort him with his quiet, confident voice and his words of ‘Shuk will welcome you home, Punch’.

He didn’t want to be alone when the time came for him to die.

Punch tried to stop counting the clankers he had incapacitated or destroyed but the number rolled automatically in his mind.  Eight.  Nine.  Ten.  B1 eleven had almost hit Resh before Punch took it down.  Clanker twelve had grazed his armor before his second blast destroyed it.  B1 thirteen wasn’t aiming at him and he blasted droid fourteen who was, then his deece came back to thirteen and he fired on the elongated head of the clanker just as the particle blast rolled from the SE-14.

Over open channels came the shocked cry of pain and a choked gurgle of blood as Captain Sharp fell to the muddy ground, one gauntleted hand reaching towards his throat.

“Medic!”


	16. Spider Droids

Medic!

Like all cries for the medic, it originated from several voices.

Punch ignored it, continuing to target B1s converging on Resh as he knifed towards the spider-droid. The mud-covered shiny was keeping pace with him and overlapping blaster fire as a more experienced trooper would do.

“Coil,” yelled Tuur from behind them under the tree cover. “See to Sharp.”

Punch, remembering that Bone, Tal, and Tenaut were already tending to others, hoped Coil got to him fast. That bubbling, gurgling, whistling combination of sounds from Sharp was ominously disturbing. The sound became inaudible as someone removed his helmet.

“Medic!” This time it was one trooper, screaming in a higher pitch than normal; the one kneeling at Sharp’s side. This time Punch flinched slightly in guilt then redoubled his efforts to reduce the number of attacking droids. That had just been his 20th clanker blasted into scavenge trash.

“I’m not a medic, Sergeant,” came the raspy, shaky reply from Coil privately, through the squad’s link even as he quickly moved from the cover of boulders towards where Captain Sharp lay.

“You’re closest, Coil,” commanded Tuur through the squad link as he blasted clankers who had begun targeting Coil. “Tenaut or one of the others will assist through medic’s view.”

“Probably not,” came Tenaut’s calm voice. “I’ve got four more here in the last few seconds. Bone and Tal are in the 3rd quadrant and even busier. You’re his only chance, Coil. Remember to breath and you’ll remember everything else you’ve learned. Treat the wound and not the trooper.”

“Medic!” The rust-red trooper at Sharp’s side was panicking, his helmet twisting around looking for a clone with medic marks on his armor. Several other troopers in the rust- red of the 44th covered them both from the advancing droids. Their fire moved into a protective cover overlapping Sergeant Tuur’s for Coil as he ran to them. He didn’t have medic marks, but the troopers recognized the medical pack he was carrying.

Almost as if Sharp’s squad had practiced it a thousand times, Fixer moved into the command position leading the remainder of Sharp’s squads smoothly towards the droid company that Captain Top was drawing out in a thin line.

Coil’s breathing was fast, almost hyperventilating. “I can’t do something like…” He was quiet then but only for a moment. “Aw, kriff,” muttered Coil, mostly to himself, and Punch knew he was at Captain Sharp’s side inspecting what was probably a fatal wound.

Punch frowned as he advanced into the mass of droids. Was it his fault if Captain Sharp died from that wild shot from the B1 he had blasted? Then he turned his attention back to the battle as a blaster bolt came a little too close, skimming his shoulder bell, but he left the helmet communications on to listen to everything.

“Punch,” called Resh as he neared the spider droid. “You said the clone who did that droid report was one of your squaddies.”

“Yes,” Punch replied, remembering that small designation of 501/41-9523 in the details of the droid report. He hadn’t believed it at first but after re-reading the report, he could imagine Chopper’s gravelly voice speaking those words in his broken cadence. He had smiled to realize that Chopper hadn’t gone to Kamino. “He’s good, Resh. Battle-brilliant.”

“Good to know, Punch, ‘cause I’m going to take his suggestion and hit the belly.”

“We’ve got you covered, Resh.” Punch took out three more B1s as he advanced then gestured to the muddy shiny and Card. Thirty-one also moved into position next to Card as they let loose a coordinated wall of blaster fire taking out a clump of clankers between Resh and the spider.

It was beautiful to see and Punch knew they’d be watching it frequently on the helmet vids.

Resh had been running all out, jigging and jagging, trusting his squad to cover him. As he neared the spider droid, he slipped his blaster into its holster and pulled out a second det.

“Fek,” whispered Card as he and Thirty-one blasted an SBD between Resh and the spider.

Focused on his target, Resh barely seemed to notice. As the SBD fell, Resh dove under the belly of the spider, twisting to face upward and slapping the two dets on the curved undercarriage of the droid.

“Keep moving, Resh,” ordered Tuur even as Resh shouted his countdown on the blast distance channel.

“Two, one…”

Troopers close enough to the droid to be affected by the blast took cover, stepping behind a tree or stooping behind a boulder. Several in the open area with no natural cover, like Punch’s group, simply turned to take any damage to the more protected shoulder and back of their armor or stepped closer to the attacking B1s and SBDs to use them as shielding.

Resh’s detonations blew in tandem, the blast jerking the droid upward, it’s mechanical feet actually coming off the muddy ground. It landed heavily, twitching in an oddly human manner before it terminated.

The spider must have sent out an electronic warning signal because all the nearby droids ducked as well, the B1 curling into their transport mode and even the SBDs attempting to squat.

The troopers had been waiting for that second blast, firing their blasters from their cover. The spider shredded itself from the inside, sending shrapnel of metal shards across the battlefield. Immediately after, as a unit, troopers and droid moved forward to re-engage.

“Resh, are you good?” Sergeant Tuur’s voice called out through the squad’s link.

There was laughter from Resh. “I’m good, Sarge. Behind enemy lines and taking down clankers.”

“Not bad,” Sten’s voice came through open channels. “For someone not a Devil Dog.”

“You got yours?” Resh laughed again though Punch could hear his blaster on the heavy setting.

“Was there any doubt?” replied the older trooper with a laugh of his own, though it seemed a little forced as he disengaged. 

Punch’s blaster gave a small, warning click and he pulled a second cartridge from his belt where Sketch’s drawing resided. “Cover me,” he called out, taking a small step back letting Card slip into his spot in the line as they advanced into the clump of droids. 

“It’s a drowser, Sharp,” Coil was saying, his voice remarkably calm for someone who’d been terrified. “A heavy duty pain-killer and sedative. It will put you to sleep.” There was a strange, nasal sound coming through Coil’s comm unit then Coil was again speaking. “I know you don’t want it, Sharp, but if you say one single word. If you use your voice in any way, I will use it on you. Do you plan to speak?”

There was silence and Punch grinned at that. No clone wanted to sleep through battle, least of all a commanding officer. The medics might use it on him anyway, but for the moment Captain Sharp  was alive and able to follow the battle.  Perhaps, with hand signals, he'd be able to guide his command. Though Sten was already making his way back to the small group around Sharp and Coil to take command now that he’d disposed of his spider-droid.


	17. Dubious Victory

Punch slipped in slick mud and fell hard.

After several hours of battle and maneuvers, the field had turned into chaos.  No one could tell where the slippery mud was located anymore; it had been trampled into and throughout the soil by more of Sharp’s explosives and countless moving feet.  But the slick material had served its purpose.  The center of the battlefield was a circle of dead droids.  Though Punch didn’t think Garl would put the holo of dancing droids to any music; it had cost too much.  

Sergeant Blast was dead and Clever was now leading that squad.  Sergeant Flame’s squad, full of shinies, was down to the sergeant and his second while Heft’s squad had only Tap, Art, Seed and Thrthree remaining.  Throughout the troops, the shinies had generally been the first to fall.  Almost always the shinies died first and Punch had a wondering thought of how had he survived so long.  _I was a shiny once_.  

Tuur had taken a blast in the chest; non-fatal but damage enough that he couldn’t keep up and had moved back to the impromptu medical station Coil had set up around Captain Sharp, both for aid and to help cover the more wounded.  Less than half the troopers were counted dead compared to almost two-thirds of the droids, but it was still too many vode gone and they were still outnumbered.

Punch smiled as he raised his free hand for assistance in getting out of the slick mud patch he’d found.  Outnumbered but narrowing the odds quickly.  They might not all die and that would be good.

Whose opinion had it been that Coil would be a good aid to Tenaut?  Card’s?  Tending Captain Sharp had been the making of him and Coil would be a superlative medic.  Already, he was taking command of the wounded and giving orders as though he’d been trained since Kamino, with only a quick occasional question of Tenaut or Bone.  He’d get his armor marked with red and orange medic’s marks as soon as they returned to camp.

One of Captain Sharp’s red-trimmed troopers, neither Sten nor Fixer, reached down a hand as he moved and pulled Punch to his feet then continued into the melee without a word.

There was less banter between the troopers now and it was mostly the talk of command and the medics over communications.  Even Captain Sharp was conveying orders to his troopers through some tapping code to Sten and Fixer.

“Slick spot,” called Punch, warning others.  “Angle 112, 150 out; 113 clear.”  That had been where Sharp’s trooper had gone and was, even now, blasting clankers.

Fixer had taken Captain Sharp’s forces to cut through the clanker line that Captain Top had entice from the main contingent of droid forces.  At the signal from Fixer once in position, Captain Top’s troopers quickly turned and encircled the clankers, blasting them from three sides.  Sharp’s squads had, back to back, blasted both the cut off line and the main force.  It could have been disastrous for Captain Sharp’s men - surrounded by droids, but their attack had been quick and decisive.  Captain Top had destroyed the droids, meeting up with Fixer leading Sharp’s groups and, with them, moving forward into the main force of droids attempting to split it into smaller forces.  From the rear of the droids, Resh had taken out countless clankers as well as another spider before yelling, ‘they know I’m here, cover me’ and returned to where Punch, Card, Thirty-one, and the muddy shiny were holding strong.

The droids, moving back into a cluster, hoped to draw the troopers into a line as Captain Top had done to the droids at the beginning of battle.

There was a staccato rattle of taps of Captain Sharp’s code and Sten spoke for his captain.  “Top, send a squad or two straight into the droids like a knife.  They’ll separate and move into position for the final dets.  Main detachments can come in after the explosives.”

“Heft,” Captain Top called.

“Captain,” came Heft’s tense voice, worried he’d once again have to make a decision to tear them apart even further, worried he’d have to reprimand his captain and vod in front of the troopers and in front of another command-level clone.

Captain Top paused then spoke quickly and Punch knew it wasn’t what he wanted to say.

“Your squad is advance, front and center.  Punch, Tuur’s squad to back them up.”

“Yes, sir,” came Heft’s voice in a breathless rush.  “On it.  Punch, take left wing.”

Punch and the remainder of Tuur’s squad moved into position to charge into the massed crowd of B1s and SBDs.  “Ready, Sergeant,” Punch called as he glanced around, making sure Tuur’s troopers were prepared.

“Let’s push ‘em back,” yelled Heft as he charged forward, followed by the troopers chosen for this assignment.

 _So few troopers_ , thought Punch as they ran towards the massed droids, but the clankers had lost their TK commander about the time Resh had taken out the second spider and they’d been on the basic programming since then.  The comparatively tiny group of clones, by the ferocity of their attack, pushed the indecisive droids back.

“Again,” yelled Heft and they all took another running charge towards the clankers.  

Over the helmet communications came Captain Sharp’s taps.  

“One more push, Sergeant,” called Sten, “and they’ll be in position.  All other forces in position, hold until after the dets.  Heft, take your push then drop.”

“To orders,” yelled Heft as he ran forward, ignoring Art as he slipped in a black patch at Heft’s side.

“Fek,” muttered Art, still firing his blaster and taking out droids as his feet crabbed frictionless on the ground pushing him around randomly.  “Not again.”

“You’re already down, Art,” laughed Tap, sliding into Art’s position next to the sergeant.  “Just keep on firing.”

“Down!”

It came from about half of Captain Sharp’s remaining troopers, demolitions to their very core, and Sergeant Heft dropped into a ball under several droids even as the two squads hit the mud sliding into the droids.  

The ground rumbled, exploded and sent debris flying.  Percussion pressed against Punch in his armor, the baffles shutting out most of the sound and the fireball.  He waited just long enough to make sure his armor had absorbed most of the impact and he was relatively uninjured.  “Squad, count.”

“With you,” called Resh.  

“Here,” replied Thirty-one followed by Card’s words of “Reporting” and the muddy shiny’s “Here.”

Sergeant Heft’s squad reported to him as well and Punch grinned to know everyone had reported in.

“Advance team, stay down,” ordered Captain Top.  “We’re coming in.”

“That’s good,” muttered Art to the rest of those troopers on the ground, watching the plasma fire above them so close they could reach up and touch it.  “I don’t think I’ll be any better at getting out of this mud patch than I was at the river.”

“Anyone else in slick mud?”  Sergeant Heft glanced around at the troopers even as his blaster fired into the mass of droids.  “No?  Keep firing until Captain’s troops pull us to our feet.”

It was… it _should_ have been a decisive victory.


	18. Retreat

It  _ should _ have been a decisive victory.

Through the triumphant victory cries of the clones as they cut through the massed droids, Punch heard Fixer’s voice on closed communications.

“Punch!  Go private!”

“Private,” called Punch from where he lay in the mud as the rain slicked his armor, blaster fire above him as the 224th surged towards the droids.

“I’ve got some odd transmission and I don’t like the sound of it.  Listen.”

The sound of that familiar buzzing transmission froze Punch’s blood.  “That’s CIS, Fixer.”

“Fek!  Thought it might be.  I’ve been running de-encryption on it, but nothing yet.”

“Use helmet codes, to triangulate the source.  It could just be battlefield chatter.”

“From droids?”  Fixer’s voice was incredulous but Punch heard the feedback as he ran the electronics.

“B1 are chatty.  You should listen before you blow them up.”  Punch shrugged as Captain Top, Lieutenant Cover and Garl ran by him, Garl pausing to give Art a hand out of the mud while Lieutenant Cover reached to pull Punch to his feet.

As he followed Captain Top in a final rush against the droids, Punch drew Sergeant Tuur into the helmet link.  “Tuur’s on, Fixer.  Link to Sten to bring in your command.”

_ A few thousand droids, a few hundred troopers and they’d won.   _

_ It had been at a high cost but they’d won.  They had demolished the droids in a hard victory; they had won. _

_ And, now this? _

_ It wasn’t fair! _

_ Life wasn’t fair.  Slick had taught him that. _

It took a few moments, but triangulating on the captains’ helmets as well as Tuur’s and Sten’s, indicated the transmissions originated from outside the battlefield, from above.

“No!” It was an angry growl from Captain Top, brought into the loop by the sergeant.  Somewhere, Punch heard echoed clatter as Captain Sharp hit his helmet against something harder than Mimban mud then his tapping code in furious staccato.

“De-encrypt it, Fixer,” said Sten for Captain Sharp.  “We’ll need to prepare for an ordered retreat, Captain Top.”

“Linking in open channels,” said Captain Top but it took a moment for his voice to lose its anger.

“Gentlemen,” his transmission went out over the battlefield, “our slicers have discovered transmissions of unknown origin.  On the assumption of CIS reinforcements, Captain Sharp and I have decided upon an ordered withdrawal.  Sergeants, call in your troopers.  Any trooper without a command, link into the nearest sergeant.  Flanks from angle 120 to 360, peel off to assist wounded and prepare for to cover.  Head medic Bone, you’re in charge of that.”

Punch, his helmet open to all channels, heard a cacophony of questions, acknowledgements and surprised anger from the troopers.  Tuur’s voice came onto the squad link.  

“Punch, you’re squad leader at the moment.  I’m with Bone, Tenaut and Coil.”  Punch heard both the pain and wry regret from Tuur that he couldn’t be blasting clankers front and center. 

The droids, aware that the troopers were no longer pushing forward or in answer to the electronic transmissions, began to rally.  Resh, at Punch’s side, slammed a B1 with his armor, then blasted an SBD.  Thirty-one, slightly behind and covering Resh, quickly took out two B1s.  The mud-covered shiny used three shots for one clanker.

“Set your blaster on higher power,” Punch told him privately, “and have your spare ready to change out.”

“I do…” began the shiny, but his words were covered by the crackle of a sudden malfunction in Punch’s helmet that closed down all systems.  

Including his visuals.

“Fek,” he muttered to himself in the blackness then, based on previous experiences, he called out to Fixer and his squad.  “My helmet’s down, I’ve got nothing.  Backing down to repair.”

Hoping someone heard that and trusting his brothers to cover him, Punch took two steps back then went to one knee lowering his blaster as he single-handedly pulled his helmet off.

Quickly resetting the minimum visuals and audibles, he was proudly aware that the squad had his six.  Resh and Thirty-one were on the outside of him blasting clankers while Card and Tack were on his other side, stretching in a link to cover the flank of Sergeant Heft’s squad, Art the next trooper in that thin line.

Minimum standards quickly returned, Punch replaced his helmet as Heft’s squad drew back, even with Card and Tack, to cover the left flank.  Captain Top and the rest of the troopers had merged into a solid line to hold rather than the wedge to knife into the opposing forces.  No longer were they pushing forward to destroy the CIS forces, they were consolidating to begin the slow retreat back to the overhang where they’d spend the rainy night.

“We’ll give the medics plenty of time, Bone,” Top was saying, 

“We won’t need much time, Punch,” said Tenaut sadly on the squad link.  “There aren’t that many wounded.”

_ Too many dead.  Even if they had destroyed all the droids and left a blown out hole where their encampment had been, it wouldn’t have been a victory.  Not really. _

Punch shook his head to clear it from those kinds of thoughts.  “We’ll pick you and Coil up as we move back.”

“I’ll be here.  Coil is with Bone.”  Tenaut chuckled.  “He did so well setting up a battlefield med unit I thought he was ready for moving one.” 

“He had a good teacher,” said Thirty-one.  

“The best,” echoed Tack.

They held against the droids, giving the wounded time to retreat, giving the scattered troopers time to consolidate into the line against the metal opponents.  They could have held longer, Fixer’s triangulation on the encrypted electronics let them know as the CIS reinforcements drew closer.

Finally, Captain Top sent the order through the army.

“Time to go, gentlemen.  Alternate squads leapfrogging fifty meters back to cover.”

Punch, as lead of an even squad, turned and moved back followed by his troopers.  At fifty meters, he spun back toward the battle line and covered as the line of troopers engaged with the clankers began their retreat.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth.


	19. No Wounded Left Behind

By the time the main company’s orderly retreat reached to where the makeshift medical unit had been, Bone, Tal and Coil were gone, the wounded with them, melted soundlessly into the ceaseless rain and the darkness of oncoming evening.  Tenaut and a few other, unwounded troopers merged into their squads as the company moved back regrouped.  Captain Top separated the company into four platoons to move back to the overhang and protective cave in smaller groups along different paths.  

Sergeant Tuur’s squad, now lead by Punch, was grouped into one of the out-skirting wings on the periphery of the company, in the platoon lead by Sten.

“You’re the experienced ones on this planet, Punch.  I’m expecting your squad to keep us out of trouble.”

“No keeping the Devil Dogs out of trouble,” quipped one of the 44th Demolitions troopers and Sten chuckled.

“Then keep us out of  _ too _ much trouble, mudjumpers,” he rumbled in good humor.  He gestured at some blast damage on the bole of a large tree; a major branch blackened and weakened by plasma fire, the bright green leaflets already curling in death.  “Fighting came this far, keep battle alert.”

As they moved in overlapping  groups, Tenaut stiffened, his gauntleted hand reaching toward his helmet as his feet stopped moving forward.

“What is it, medic?”  Sten paused, but waved the troopers to continue moving.

“An unaccounted trooper,” replied Tenaut as he gesture to Thirty-one and the muddy Eighty-four to follow him.  “Wounded.”  He spun on his toe and vanished into the darkness.

Sten nodded then continued with the platoon but not before making a sharp gesture to Card and Tack who both peeled off to accompany Tenaut.  

Punch, slowed as well, falling back to the rear of the forces, both to cover the retreat and to be prepared to assist the medic.  He spoke to Resh and Tack.  “Front with Sten.”  He smiled slightly in his helmet.  “As he says, keep them out of Mimban trouble.”

“Got him,” came Tenaut’s voice shortly, even before Resh and Tack were out of sight.  “He looks bad.  Card, you’ll be hauling; Thirty-one, Eighty-four, cover us.”  Then, to the wounded trooper - probably unconscious - Tenaut spoke as he tended, “This will sting.” 

“Medic,” began Eighty-four, “Let me carry, I’m almost…”

“Droids!”

It was Thirty-one’s voice, followed by blaster fire.  

Listening, Punch got a sudden chill down his back as he realized what the shiny had meant to say, both now and when his helmet had malfunctioned, why he’d been firing on low power.  “Sten, send backup.”

Blue and red blaster bolts a hundred meters forward, indicated where they had found the wounded trooper.

“Card,” yelled Tenaut, “go!  Got you covered.”

“I’m out.  Empty,” cried the shiny.

“I’ve got you covered,” shouted Tenaut almost in tandem with Thirty-one’s voice.

“Here’s one.”

From the amount of fire, there must have been two squads of droids.  The blue flashes were far outnumbered by the red.

Card came from the underbrush, one of the red-trimmed Devil Dogs over his shoulder.  “In a hollow between two boulders,” he said as he ran past.  “Do you need…”

“Go,” shouted Punch as he continued toward the firefight.  Behind him, he heard the squad of troopers Sten had sent running quickly to assist.  Ahead of him, he heard the shocked cry of a trooper wounded beyond capability and saw the blue GAR blaster-fire of a single blaster.

As Punch and the squad came on the scene, slightly above the clankers, Eighty-four was firing a blaster while trying to drag Tenaut into the small area shielded by the slick and slippery boulders.  He’d already pulled Thirty-one back behind him but Punch didn’t like the way he lay, lax and peaceful, as if asleep.

“Grab him,” Punch pointed to Thirty-one and one of Sharp’s men holstered his blaster as he jumped down to Thirty-one.  “Eighty-four, haul Tenaut,” he ordered, firing his own balster.  “Squad, let’s get rid of a few more clankers.”

“With you,” called one of the troopers.

“Do you need more reinforcements?”  Sten’s voice rumbled in his helmet or perhaps that was thunder.

“Negative,” Punch called as he grabbed where Tenaut’s weapon had fallen and fired both blasters, taking down two droids.  “Sir,” he added belatedly.

As they moved back into the muddy undergrowth and the near-invisibility of armor in the rain, the clankers ceased their advance.  Punch could hear their electronic voices, but couldn’t make out any specific words.  

“Punch,” again it was Sten.  “According to Fixer’s helmet, there appear to be several troopers pinned down about 100 meters battleside from you.”  He made a disgusted noise deep in his throat.  “My helmet says not.  Most of the platoon helmets agree with mine.  It’s your call.” 

It wasn’t even a decision Punch had to think about.  

“Continued on with the wounded,” he ordered Eighty-four and the 44th-er.  The rest of you, with me.”  Punch moved into the darkening evening, trying to get his visual filters to work.  He had direct visibility for the moment, but was losing that quickly.

“Resh,” he called on the open channel.  “Does your helmet have full functionality?”

“Yes, sir, sergeant’s second Punch.”  

Resh didn’t have to add the ‘sir’ but did so to enforce Punch’s authority among the stranger squad.

“Sten with your permission, Resh will take lead, no external lights.  We don’t know how far out the droids patrol.  Project a black light.  It’s difficult for B1s and SBDs to detect and it will phosphoresce on the greenery.”

Sten acknowledged and gave the order among the platoon and passed the information to Captain Top.

“Shall we do that here,” asked one of squad with Punch.

“Please, I’m on direct visuals only.  Helmet malfunction.”

“I can take lead, sir,” called another.  “Deadeye.  Sniper.”

“Scout?”  Punch asked the squad.

“Jark.”  The trooper moved forward.  “But not in this kind of terrain.”

Punch nodded.  “Deadeye, Jark, arc up the hill fifteen or twenty meters.  Look for movement and blaster fire.  Stay parallel and when you talk, make it open channels.  See if we can catch them in a crossfire.”

The pair pushed up the hill as two of the other three troopers paced on either side of Punch, the foliage in front glowing a bright green and electric blue.  Ahead, they began to hear blaster fire.

“Looks like Fixer’s helmet was correct,” Punch called to Sten.  “Battle noise ahead.”

“Fek.”  That was private to Punch alone, then Sten opened the communications for all troopers.  “Fixer was right, gentlemen.  Rear two squads, hold for more information.”

“Eight troopers, two wounded, Fifteen…”

“Sixteen,” corrected Deadeye.

“Sixteen droids.  It’s a blind alley.  They can’t get in but the troopers can’t move out.  Punch let us know when you’re in position and we’ll snipe from up here.”

Punch gestured to two of the troopers with him to move to his left.  “Inverse V approach and hit their flanks.  Deadeye, Jark, begin sniping now.  They’ll may not realize we’re behind them.”

The plan worked beautifully.  The clankers went down quickly, taken out by Deadeye and Jark with renewed fire from the pinned-down squad, before they even registered the troopers behind them.

“I can manage,” said one wounded as he looked at his squadmate who gave a sickly grin then glanced at his blaster-blackened leg.

“Not me.  I’ll need a pack eopie.”

“I’ve got you _vode_ ,” said one of the troopers with Punch, reaching down and hauling him over his shoulder.

“I hate this,” muttered the wounded clone.

“Next time,” chucked one of his squaddies in relief as he rubbed his brother’s back, “duck faster.”

“Let’s move it,” ordered Punch.  “Sten, we’ve got the squad.  Two wounded of eight.”

“Bring them home, Punch.  Bring them home.”

With a satisfied grin inside his helmet, Punch lead them through the landscape of florescent green and blue, back toward the dry overhang where the company waited.


	20. In the Clarity of Night

It was near the middle of night and the rain had slackened by the time Punch and the Devil Dogs squads reached the overhang where the others had made a camp.  They had made good time, Punch pausing for a rest and ensuring the wounded were tended at good intervals.  Several troopers took turns as the pack eopie while another two stayed at Punch’s side, lighting his way.  

The flicker of several small fires greeted them and several vode came out to assist them as they came to the overhang, reaching for the wounded and handing out hot rations.

Punch dismissed the squad he’d commanded with an open channels comment for everyone to hear.  “Good job, troopers.”

“Thank you, sir,” most responded as they moved to rest in the cave.  Several saluted.

Punch glanced around for the wounded.  He saw Thirty-one near the cave entrance, Card at his side.  However, his helmet was on and Card’s lips were quietly mouthing words.  Card was doing the only thing anyone could do for Thirty-one now; remembering him.

There were no other dead among the troopers so Punch glanced around for his sergeant and squad.  Captain Sharp, his throat heavily bandaged and his helmet in his hands was tapping on his helmet for Sten to translate for Captain Top.  Top nodded then moved around the cave, speaking to both the troopers of Sharp’s company as well as the 224th, Lieutenant Cover at his side.  Sergeant Heft was with his company, every one of them wounded but none dead.

Sergeant Tuur sat with his back against a large stone, Coil at his side gently applying bacta gel to his blaster-burnt chest.  Tuur's eyes were shut in pain and he held his arm tight against his chest.  Bone, next to the sergeant, was working on Tenaut but Punch could see the concern in his face and the small shakes of his head as he picked up then discarded in quick succession several of the medical instruments at his side.

“How is he, Bone?”  Sergeant Tuur’s voice was a shadow of its normal self.

Bone shook his head.  “Not good, Tuur.  He needs a bacta tank and he needs it now.”  Bone paused then gave a deep sigh.  “He won’t last the night.”

Tuur let loose a breath, choked with emotion and heavy with despair.

“We’ll take him back to barracks, sir.”  It was Resh’s voice from where he stood at the overhang's entrance.  “Won’t we, Punch?”  There was hesitation and question in Resh’s voice as he appealed for Punch to back him up.  It was more hope than any real expectation that the captains and the medics would let him take the wounded man.

As exhausted as he was, Punch could only nod.  Resh had to be as tired as anyone in the squad; he’d taken on two spider-droids in addition to a kriff-load of clankers but if Resh thought he could make it back to barracks with Tenaut, Punch would accompany him.

Bone shook his head.  “A bacta tank is a complicated piece of machinery, trooper.  It needs a trained medic and neither Tal or I can leave everyone else who is wounded.”

“Then tell us, Bone.”  

Bone started to shake his head but Punch began speaking, backing up Resh.

“You don’t need to train us.  Only tell us what we have to do for Tenaut’s injuries.”  Punch said.  “We don’t need to know all the settings, simply whatever codes pertain to Tenaut’s injuries, whatever buttons we need to push and toggles …”  Punch paused then shrugged.  “We need to toggle.”

Coil stood, his hand reaching back and pressing his palm against his shoulder.  “I’ll go, Bone.  I’m haven’t been a medic’s aid long, but Tenaut was training me.”

“In bacta?”  Bone’s voice was harsh and doubtful.

“Settings and theoretical cases only.”  Coil rubbed his shoulder and swallowed nervously.  “But give us the information, Bone.”  He gave a sad, nervous laugh.  “It can’t kill him.”

There was a hollow knocking sound and the troopers turned towards where Captain Sharp was supported by Sten’s arms with Fixer at his side.

“Use Captain Sharp’s helmet to augment the transmission,” suggested Fixer from where he sat with Captain Sharp, peering questioningly into the captain’s face, the captain nodding tiredly.  Captain Sharp had his helmet in his lap and Fixer’s hand gripped in his own on the crown of the bucket.  

Punch nodded.  “Captain to captain, it should reach, Bone.  We’ll contact Top when we reach the barracks and you can oversee the procedure.  I can augment it with the camp’s communications as well.  You can guide us through the medic’s view.”

Bone glanced to Captain Top then to Captain Sharp who gave a final tired nod as he pushed his helmet from his lap into Fixer’s hands and slipped into unconsciousness.  Sten, one arm around Sharp’s shoulders, gently laid him onto the small mound of blanket-covered moss.

“Let them go, Bone,” ordered Captain Top in the quiet of the company and the medic gave a solitary nod.

"Good luck," he murmured as they departed.

It was a rare, peaceful night with no rain.  In the distance, lightning flashed against the black sky creating a dazzling display.  None of the men running along with the gravity lift noticed.  There was only the mission:  get Tenaut back to the barracks and into a bacta tank.  Make sure he survived.

* * * * * * * * * *

Punch looked up into Tenaut’s tired face, his closed eyes puffy and bruised; shadowed in motley by the blue clarity of bacta.  

Coil had called up Bone on Captain Sharp’s borrowed helmet even as he shoved Tenaut into the tank with Resh and Punch stripping off the medic’s armor.  When Tenaut was down to discolored, bloody skin, Punch called up the auxiliary transmissions from the medical unit, leaving Resh to rig the holding harness.  

As Coil spoke, asking questions of Bone, Punch had augmented the transmission with the medical console and seen the fuzzy, broken hologram turn clear and sharply defined.  As soon as the tank’s healing program began, Coil had set Sharp’s helmet gently on the console then collapsed.  

Resh and Punch had tended Coil’s wounded shoulder, more extensive on his back than he’d let on, then placed him, stomach down, on one of the beds in medical.  Resh had pushed a second bed next to Coil’s and crawled into it, whispering words of encouragement and rubbing Coil’s arm.  Both troopers were asleep before Punch had taken two steps towards the blankets.  For a moment, Punch stared at them, Coil drooling lightly on the pillow and Resh’s fingers clenched around his wrist so he wouldn’t roll onto his back.  Punch smiled as he pulled a blanket over each trooper.  They were good _vode_ , good brothers.  

He returned to the front of the bacta tank and watched Tenaut limply suspended in the tank.  Tenaut was a good brother as well.

“ _Ni su’cuyi_ ,” Punch began the words he’d once sworn he’d never say for anyone but Sketch.  “ _Gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum_.”  

_Now what?_

Punch worried his lips as he thought then softly spoke to troopers who were there only in spirit.  

“Shuk, I know you’re his closest brother and I know he wants to be with you and Runner and the other vode of his first squad.  Don’t take him, please do not welcome Tenaut among you.  Not yet.  Make him keep to his vow.  It was to never take his own life, wasn’t it?  To never take the easy way?”

Only the silence of the near-empty medical hall and the comforting sound of the bacta tank answered him but Punch felt peace seem to lightly spread through him as he spoke to Tenaut’s long-dead brothers.  

“You know he’s a good brother, one of the best medics.  His way has never been easy.”

It didn’t seem to be enough to Punch.

“We need him, Shuk.  Let him stay.”

Punch paused then spoke in a small whisper.

“I need him.  He gives me hope.”


	21. Considering Mistakes

After finishing his words to Tenaut’s first squad and simply listening to the night noises in Medical for a while, he checked over Resh and Coil a second time, adjusting Coil’s blanket so it wouldn’t rub against his back.  Then Punch returned to his barracks.

Without the  squad, the barracks was far too quiet for sleep and Punch debated taking a bed in medical with Resh and Coil but decided not.  After clearing the gear for the two dead shinies and Thirty-one, Punch took his helmet to the mess along with the tools to make it functional once again.  One of the skeleton crew of guards, just off duty, sat with him, drinking caf.  He had asked a couple of questions about the battle but quieted once he realized Punch wasn’t in a talkative mood.

“There will be plenty to hear when they return.”  Punch grinned absently.  “Resh took out two spider-droids single-handed.”

“Sounds like it will be a good vid.  Will they return by tomorrow?  Noon?”  He had asked as he stood.

Punch had thought.  “Maybe a bit later.  Almost everyone is wounded to some extent so they’ll be slow.”  He bent back over his helmet to pry out the transponder chips, blackened and burnt.

As Punch had said, the company arrived just before evening’s dark along with another of Mimban’s torrential rains.

Per regulation, all but the most severely wounded reported to their barracks after battle; Punch, Resh and Coil among them.

Sergeant Tuur was the most badly injured, Tack and Card at his side in case he needed assistance.  Eighty-four, his head bowed, followed them slowly.  Instead of tossing his stuff on his rack, he stared for a long moment at Thirty-one’s gear neatly packed then stood at parade rest by his bunk, waiting for the reprimand.

Tuur nodded tiredly at Punch’s words of ‘I’ve done a preliminary report, sergeant, as well as prepared the mortuary documents for Thirty-one, 1883, and 1297.'

“Thank you, Punch.  Finish the assessment and send it to Captain Top and Lieutenant Cover.  I’ve been ordered to report to medical first thing.”  He turned toward Eighty-four.  “I had something unpleasant to do first.”

Eighty-four flinched.

Punch glanced at Tuur.  It was easy to see the sergeant was angry at the rookie; his eyes blazed and his lips were a thin white line, only partially due to the pain of his wound and more for the pain of lost troopers.

“Night guard detail for ten days,” he ordered then turned and left the room with his arms across his chest. Tack and Card, assisted him to medical, Card supporting him with an around around his trunk while Tack’s hand was under his non-wounded arm.

Punch thought about that.  When Slick was angry he hid it and, in the end, none of the squad had really been sure if demerits came from command rules or Slick’s anger.  With Sergeant Tuur it was always easy to tell.  Nor was he vindictive; he hadn’t punished the rookie any more than he would have punished anyone for a mess-up like that, he wasn’t punishing for the death of Thirty-one, only for forgetting that extra set of cartridges.

Punch took a slow measuring look at Coil and Resh also leaving the room as well, Coil with a muttered profanity at the rookie.  Gus would have done that; reflecting Slick’s disdain for failure.  For considering himself a failure and not wanting any of them to know.  

Resh’s face was all twisted in angry pain, so much like Jester when he couldn’t understand something; when Slick’s rules quoted from Kamino conflicted with battlefield reality.

Punch was moving towards the door as well, data pad in hand to finish the assessment in the mess, when the movement of muddy Eighty-four taking off his helmet stalled him.

His face was frozen in pain, halting Punch in his steps as if seeing for the first time.

He was about to desert one of his brothers.  This was worse than deserting him on the battlefield.  Punch slowly sat back on his bunk, watching the rookie who was watching him with red-rimmed eyes, waiting for him to leave the barracks like the others, waiting for muttered profanities and Mando’a curses at his ineptitude.  The rookie’s face was pale but otherwise displayed no emotion, waiting for the moment of solitude to release pain and tears in solitude.

Punch had seen that expression before; tight and brittle.  Usually on Chopper or Gus, but sometimes Punch had seen that expression on his own brother-by-choice.  

_Sketch never told him what Slick did as punishment but Punch knew after he had asked to see one of Sketch’s drawings of the people at the refugee camp.  Sketch’s expression had gone bleak and he had pleaded not being in the mood to look for his drawings._

_As if he had put them anywhere but his locker._

_As if the only personal thing a trooper had could go missing._

_Punch had glossed over it with a ‘maybe later’ that never came, but neither he nor Sketch were fooled and, in the end, that tiny little lie had put distance between them.  Like so much of what Slick had done to them._

This trooper was hurting; from facing his first battle and his first error causing another brother’s death.  Punch had been about to desert him to his pain and the derision of others.  He shook his head; he had promised that he’d take care of his brothers, that what had happened in Slick’s squad wouldn’t happen again if he had the power to stop it.

Yet, he’d been about to turn into Slick - disdainful of a sad, simple mistake.

Punch stood and moved over to the cleaning rags.  Grabbing two, he moved to the rookie’s bunk and sat down next to the no-longer-shiny, close enough to feel the tremors that ran through his body even through the plates of his armor.  

No one needed to punish the trooper, he was punishing himself, knowing a squad member had died because he had forgotten the extra cartridge set in the excitement of his first battle.  

“Go wash up and I’ll start cleaning your armor.  It will look better if you report for duty in clean armor even if it won’t stay that way for long.”  Punch reached as the rookie’s trembling fingers handed over his helmet and he stood, slowly removing the white plates of his armor now muddy, stained and scuffed.  No longer shiny.

“You’ll feel better as well.”  Punch knew that for the truth.  He’d spent long hours in the showers trying to wash away tiny little lies.

_He’d been good.  Right off Kamino he’d had scores that put him in running for sergeant’s training until, deciding he didn’t want to get separated from Sketch, he’d slacked off just a tiny bit; just a tiny little lie; not doing his best._

He snorted.  He’d been separated from Sketch anyway and that had been another lie to the review board.   

_Are there any extenuating circumstances you would like us to take into consideration before reassigning you?_

_“No, sir.”_

Had he been that furious over a drawing?  A drawing that Slick blackmailed Sketch to do?  Couldn’t he have forgiven Sketch for that horrible drawing; for that imagined mark of Slick’s teeth on his shoulder?  It was just a kriffin’ piece of second-hand flimsi.  

Though he still had it, carefully tucked into his cartridge case.

“They hate me,” the younger clone whispered.  “If Tenaut hadn’t been covering my shebs, he wouldn’t be in bacta now and maybe he could have saved Thirty-one.”

It was bad enough to die, but Punch thought there could be no worse death than dying with your designation number only.  As if you hadn’t distinguished yourself from your brothers sufficiently.  This was the fifth ‘Thirty-one’ Punch had known, the second who had died with only his designation.  Both had been good, capable troopers but how could you say remembrance for someone who had only grown up to die before he could even name himself or earn a name from his brothers?

Punch shook his head, wiping the no-longer-shiny armor with smooth, practiced strokes.  “They’re angry.  You messed up.  You know that and you’ve learned from it. Do you think you’ll ever forget an extra cartridge or two when you go into an offense that is expected to last longer than the blaster ammo?”

The new trooper shook his head.  His hands shook as he set the last piece of armor on the bed but his voice was sadly firm.  “No.”

“You can’t say that Tenaut wouldn’t have been wounded.  Medics usually have the highest casualty rate because their attention is divided between battle and the wounded.  You can’t say that Thirty-one would be alive.  There’s no knowing.  Never.”

The rookie dropped his head with a sob, tears streaming down his face now.  Punch bowed his own face over the armor to avoid seeing that pain.  Or perhaps he bowed his face to hide his own eyes, beginning to burn with unshed tears for missing Sketch.

**“Go shower,” he ordered, wondering if he’d ever see Sketch again.**


	22. Shinies Die First

_Shinies died first._

_I was a shiny once._

_Before Slick._

_What did Slick do that I survived?_

The words ran through Punch’s head as his hands worked on helmets in the supply room.  He was aware of Art and Fixer, also surrounded by transponders, wire, tools and spare parts.  They were talking, low-voiced but in good humor.  Punch hadn’t wanted to talk; he wanted to think so the two others agreeably took helmets and conversation to the other side of the room.  Another helmet fixed, Punch smoothly flipped it to stare into its face.    

_Slick had tormented them._

_He dismissed Jester and Chopper as worthless, k’atini; tormenting Chopper with scars that, Punch had learned, were inevitable in a trooper that took point so often and quelling Jester’s ideas with a mere glance._

_He had separated Punch from his brother, Sketch._

_And, he had raped Gus._

_But they had all survived Christophsis._

Punch gave a slight shrug as he set down the helmet and picked up another.  A glance showed him the blackened circuits.  

_So far he had also survived Mimban._

_Had the others survived?_

_Had Sketch?_

_Was their survival due to Slick?_

His communications unit flickered red - official call from Captain Top.

“Sir?”  

In the other corner both Fixer and Art glanced in his direction.

“Punch, report to my office at your convenience but before end of duty.”

“I’ll be right there, sir,” Punch replied, wondering if there were more electronics failures in the main console.  “Fixer and Art have helmet re-interfacing in hand.”

On the way to Captain Top’s quarters, Punch saw Sten who gave him a nod.  “Captain Sharp would like to talk with you after he’s out of bacta.”

“Will do, Sten.  I’ll stop by your quarters after this meeting with Top and check for a good time.”

Captain Top didn't even wait for Punch to salute before he began speaking.  “Captain Sharp and I will be discussing further promotions and citations once he’s out of bacta but we’ve already discussed you, Punch.  Tuur suggested it when you, Resh and Coil brought Tenaut back to base but  Captain Sharp and I were already discussing it.  We interviewed the squad Sten loaned you. The troopers - Deadeye, Jark, the others were unanimous.” Top gave a short chuckle. “The squad of troopers you rescued were pretty unanimous as well.”

Punch shook his head.  “I didn’t do anything any other trooper wouldn’t have done.”

Captain Top nodded.  “Possibly not, but you did it.  Planned and executed with perfection.  I’ve checked the troopers’ downloads and questioned them in person.  Most importantly, Punch, the squad and Captain Sharp’s troopers followed you with no hesitation.  They trusted your judgment.”  

Captain Top paused for a moment then dropped his eyes to the surface of the desk.  “That’s more than I get now, after that mess with Heft and Art.”  He sighed.  “I’ve lost more than Heft for that lapse in judgment.”

Punch nodded in empathy though he didn’t say his words aloud. _I’ve lost my brother for a lapse in judgment also._

Sergeant Heft was waiting outside of Top’s office, a broadly grinning Resh at his side.

Resh snapped into attention and flashed Punch a salute. “Reporting to your squad for duty, Sergeant Punch.”  

“Congratulations, Sergeant Punch.” Heft gestured his palm down the corridor and Punch fell into step beside him as Resh moved into position behind both men. “Shall we stop by the mess for caf?”

It was traditional; a new sergeant would have caf with the senior sergeant of the company. Punch shook his head.

“Eighty-four is on punishment detail tonight and I will be keeping him company.”

Heft raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “He forgot the extra cartridge set.”

With a shrug, Punch stopped in the hallway. “I’m squad second. It’s my responsibility to make sure the troopers are fully prepared before going into the field. It’s as much my error as his.”

“Later, then.” With a thoughtful nod, Heft continued. “As you know, sergeant’s meeting is daily 0400. Today it’s mostly after-battle debrief. Sharp’s company will be departing planetside tomorrow early.” He gave a gruff chuckle. “Assuming electronics are working correctly.”

Punch nodded. “I’m getting an idea of the pattern of disturbances. It appears weather related.”

“Keep on it, Punch. Those interferences are,” he paused, searching for the correct term.

Punch knew he was remembering the squad that Punch had rescued. Every helmet except Fixer’s had malfunctioned, showing no one remaining on the battlefield.

“Potentially lethal,” Heft finished with a grimace. “Captain Sharp will be out of bacta in several hours and everyone will gather at the platform for the 44th’s departure.” A smile crossed his lips then quickly faded. “Besides yourself, there are other sergeants to acknowledge and commendations to award.” They reached a corner and Heft, finished, gave a nod and continued towards his own barracks.

Punch, followed by Resh, turned the other direction. For a moment there was only the sound of their steps echoing in the hallway.

“Sergeant,” asked Resh as he moved beside Punch. “Will you accept me into your squad? I volunteer and Captain Top says both he and Tuur will approve.”

“As my second, if you wish.” Punch nodded as Resh breathed a large sigh of prideful relief.

“Yes, sir!” The grin was back on Resh’s lips. “Coil and Art will also volunteer.”

As a laugh burbled up from his chest, Punch halted to stare Resh in the face. “How many troopers knew, before me, that I was to be sergeant?”

A ruddy blush covered Resh’s cheeks. “Almost everyone, sir.”

Again, Punch laughed as he shook his head in disbelief. Turning, they made their way towards the barracks in silence. There weren’t many troopers that time of night, but the few they did encounter would glance at Punch then Resh. At a tiny nod from his second, Punch would receive a salute.

After stopping by Sten’s temporary office and setting a time for a meeting with Captain Sharp, they continued towards their barracks. There was silence until Resh spoke again.“I’d also like to take some of Eight-four’s punishment detail, sir. You’re right in what you told Heft; that some of his failure was your responsibility. But, that means it was the failure and responsibility of the squad.”

“How do you figure that, Resh?”

“We’re vode, brothers. It’s our job to watch out for each other. Not just the vode we’ve been working with for some time and not just our chosen brothers or lovers, but the new ones as well. The rookies, the shinies, the ones right off Kamino.” Resh shrugged as they reached the door of their barracks.

“We were all shinies once, Punch. We can’t forget that.”

_I was shiny once._

_What did Sergeant Slick do that I survived?_

“You’re right, Resh. We can’t forget that.” He turned to Resh. “Make sure I don’t.”

Resh caught the gravity in his voice and came to attention. “Never, Sergeant Punch. I will never let you forget that we’re all vode.” He saluted, firm and precise, holding it.

Sergeant Punch nodded solemnly and saluted back, sealing their vow.


	23. A New Squad

Punch woke.  

A quick glance at the chron showed it was sometime between midnight and sunrise.  He thought there might be one today, rather than the more usual stormy mornings.  

He hoped so, he’d get a chance to test his theory.  The helmets never worked great, there was far too much electric static on Mimban for that, though the baffles helped.  But some days were better than others.  He had calculated and it seemed that days immediately following good weather were actually when the helmets malfunctioned the most.

With a sigh, Punch glanced around the barracks he would be leaving tomorrow… later today.  It was a good squad; he hoped he could make his squad this good.  

Sergeant Tuur’s door was closed, a sign he was still asleep after his short stint in a bacta tank.  Medical orders for him included restricted activity for five days then a reevaluation.  There’d been more troopers badly wounded than there were tanks, so medical was cycling troopers through in alternating ranks triaged by wound severity.  

Sergeant Tuur’s first words upon exiting the bacta, assisted by Bone and Card, were for Punch.  “Congratulations, Sergeant Punch.”

Punch had saluted back with a heartfelt.  “Thank you, Sergeant Tuur.”  Sergeant Tuur had shown him how a sergeant could be; Punch had more than Slick’s example.

The other bunks in the barracks were full, the troopers peacefully quiet.  

Except one.  

Resh’s bunk was empty, though inspection ready.  Punch shrugged.  Resh occasionally crept into another bunk for the company and he looked to see who Resh might have joined.  Resh had asked him first, but Punch had refused with a smile.  It was always good to find out your brothers trusted you with their first time, but he’d never been inclined that way.  Not even for Sketch.

Resh wasn’t with any of the others though, not even Tack who was his usual companion.  Punch glanced at the sergeant’s door, then shook his head.  Neither Resh nor Tuur would cross rank.  It led, as Punch well-knew, to inequalities of power that could destroy a squad.

Quietly, Punch pulled on his comfortable garrison greys then moved out of the barracks, silently closing the door behind him, towards the mess for some caf.  He wanted to think about forming his squad, about how to run it.  Resh had already volunteered as had Coil though Tal had denied that, shifting Coil into the medic’s squad with the tacit apology to Punch of ‘he’ll make a better medic’.

Resh was in the mess.  Sitting with him, lifting a cup of caf to his lips, was Sten from the Devil Dogs.  Resh was also in off-duty fatigues while Sten was in armor with his gear bag at his side, prepared for the departure of the 44th.  As Punch looked in their direction in a silent question of sitting with them, both Sten and Resh nodded.

“Fixer says he learned a lot about helmets and electronics from being on Mimban,” said Sten as Punch sat with them.  “But, I think he means he learned a lot from you.”

“If I don’t see him, let him know I think it’s some kind of electronic rebound effect from good weather.”

Sten nodded with a thoughtful frown then he turned to Resh who’d fallen silent.  “Tell me more about the Unchanged King, Resh.  I’d like to be able to share his experiences with other vode.”

**********

Twelvetwelve was glad when the LAAT broke through the clouds into the lower atmosphere.  Above the clouds, he’d actually been terrified by the sudden sideways jerks of the LAAT that threw troopers against the bulkheads and the lightning bolts that actually touched the body of the craft, hissing like some venomous creature and making lights glow with electron overload that loudly burst one bulb causing some troopers to jump and others to reach for their blasters.

“Nothing to worry about, rookies,” the pilot had said about the third lightning strike.  “Typical Mimban weather.”

He must have been right; they landed safely enough.

There was a double contingent of troopers in armor that was no longer shiny, their helmets in their arms as they stood at parade rest.  Though they weren’t waiting for Twelvetwelve or the remainder of the LAAT passengers.

Captain Top and Captain Sharp hadn’t known about them.  They’d been surprised by the fifty new troopers.  Nor had the pilot expected to take four squads for the return.  

Captain Sharp had laughed bitterly in a harsh voice, unlike clones.  There was the edge of a red, raw scar high on his throat.  

“They’re all yours, Top.”

“What will I do with them?”

Captain Sharp made a palm up shrug.  “Take out the droid encampment?”  He suggested then turned, facing both the 44th Devil Dogs as well as Captain Top’s company.  “It was a good plan, Top.”  He looked out over the troopers.  “I don’t think it could have been executed any better.”  He gave a twisted, ironic grin as his eyes skimmed over the new troopers as if measuring them.  “They just received their backups before we did.”

Twelvetwelve stood tautly straight then; there’d been too much… sadness... too much regret... in the captain’s voice.  Then Captain Sharp, his visual sweep of the rookies done, turned towards the others.  Twelvetwelve noted they all had colors; some red like Captain Sharp, others the yellow-orange matching Captain Top.  All of the clones marked yellow-orange had no visible hair; their only differences individual scars.

Twelvetwelve easily determined the head medic; he frowned at Captain Sharp and gestured his hand to his own throat then tapped the medical kit on his belt meaningfully as he shifted just enough to bring Sharp’s attention to him.  Captain Sharp nodded then turned with a gesture to Captain Top.  

“Before the departure of the 44th Special Ops, Captain Sharp and I have promotions and commendations to announce.”  Captain Top began listing names and their actions deserving of accolades.

Twelvetwelve listened, memorizing names.  These were his new vode, the troopers from his first company, the ones he would judge everyone else by.

Two troopers from the 224th contingent were promoted to sergeants.

“Brevet sergeants,” had hissed Ninety-two, standing next to Twelvetwelve, in disdain.  “No training; we’ll probably go to them.”

“Canon fodder,” had agreed someone a few lines back.  Twelvetwelve didn’t think any of the 224th had heard.

**********

There was a tap on the barracks door and, when it opened, one of the newly-arrived troopers stood with his shiny helmet under his arm.

“Reporting for duty to your squad, Sergeant Punch.  CT-76-1212.  Captain Top will be sending my official records directly to you.”

“Are you the first of my assigned troopers?  I thought Captain Top said he wouldn’t assign the new troopers for a few days.”

“No sir.  I volunteered for your squad.”

His new sergeant looked at him with an inquiring gaze and Twelvetwelve stood at attention.  The sergeant’s eyes lingered on his bare scalp and shaven eyebrows with curiosity though Twelvetwelve had done that because it seemed the entire 224th was naked of hair.  He wanted to let them know he’d make sure to fit in with them.  

Then the sergeant gestured him into the barracks.  It was acceptance, and Twelvetwelve breathe a sigh of relief.

“Why did you volunteer?  You do know I’m brevet and have no Kamino training?”

“Yes, sir.  But, I’ve been listening and talking to some experienced vode in the mess.”  Twelvetwelve gestured to Art and Card, sitting at the table, two of his new squad-mates.  Art was the one with eyebrows; he’d been told Art had tattooed them on himself.  “They’re experienced troopers.”  He pointed to Resh lounging on his side in the bunk and spoke in awe.  “I’ve seen the vids of him destroying two spider-droids single-handed.” The rookie gestured to Tap.  “He’s a scout and I heard one of the medical aids volunteered as well.”  Twelvetwelve sucked in his lower lip.  “I figure if you just made brevet sergeant today and already have three good, experienced troopers, a medical aid and a scout wanting into your squad then I couldn’t do any better than having you as my sergeant.”

“Can’t argue with that, Punch,” said Resh.  Then, with a grin, he spoke again.  “After all, I am superlative.  Any smart trooper would want me in his...”

Three pillows from Card, Tap and Art all hit target.  Sergeant Punch smiled at the new trooper and handed him a pillow from the nearest bunk then gestured at Resh throwing one of the pillows back at Card, all four vode laughing as he attempted to duck behind the table.  

“Take your shot.”

Twelvetwelve decided it would be a good squad.


End file.
